Up The Women (2013) s02e04 Episode Script


1 Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh! Morning! Oh, Eva! Thank goodness! I'm very anxious to catch the 11.
03 train.
But it's nine o'clock.
I'm cutting it fine, I know.
No, no! No time, leave it on, leave it on.
- Oh! Where's Master Thomas? - He's in the kitchen Thomas! I've got some clothes for his work-shy drunkards.
I think you mean the destitute, dipsomaniacal men of the workhouse that Thomas is charitably endeavouring to clothe? Yes, those.
Thomas, I've got some bits for your no-hopers.
Wonderful, Mrs Moore.
Those poor wretches forced by circumstance to huddle against the elements will surely be truly grateful for your generous donation.
There! Keep those gypso-maniacals' little tootsies warm.
Ah! Thank you! Actually - I've just remembered where the other one is to that pair.
Thank you for your sock.
I shall put it with the other things.
I've also brought some essential ladies' travelling items, Margaret, for our trip to London.
I got a nice little cushion, a footstool, a seat cover - in case of boy fleas.
Got some spare hats and gloves and Oh, no! Where's my special "going to London" umbrella? - Right, I have to go back and get it.
- No, no.
No time.
Are we ready for London? Ah, yes, no.
No, keep it on.
Keep it on.
I'm anxious to attend the great Japanese exhibition in White City to see if the Emperor Meiji's wax effigy is as impressive as the man himself.
I met him in '72.
He saluted me with his ceremonial sword.
Well, perhaps after our suffrage business.
Oh, yes, I'd forgotten about that.
That is the purpose of our trip, Myrtle.
Are those our travel provisions? Yes.
I'm afraid you'll have to make do with a little picnic I made myself.
Gwen is not with us today.
What have you made? A flask of tea, a treacle loaf, beetroot, egg and fish paste sandwiches made with my unleavened salt bread.
That's not food - that's punishment.
- Where is Gwen? - She's visiting a clairvoyant in Oxford.
She's very anxious to find out where her father put the key to the privy.
But hasn't he gone to the other side? Yes, yes, hence the clairvoyant.
Her mother's worsening rheumitis means she simply cannot continue to crouch to use the er - the er - Oven? No, the, the - Bucket.
- Oh, hello, Emily! - Hello! I brought some of Daddy's clothes for Thomas.
Well done, you! He's in the kitchen.
Can you hurry him along? We've only got one hour, 52 minutes before our train leaves.
Morning, ladies! - Morning, Frank.
- Ooh, is that your bicycle, Frank? Yes.
What a smart two-wheeler! - She's my pride and joy! - She? I call her Lady Agatha.
I once knew a bike called Lady Agatha.
If you'll forgive us, Frank, we are in a state of urgence and readiness for our imminent departure.
Tea, Myrtle? Well, you'll find Banbury all a-buzz with the big news.
News? The police have foiled another attack by the Banbury Free Suffragette Army! - The BFSA? - What're those show-offs up to now? They were seen loitering at the station, hatless and smoking cigarettes! Oh! Hatless?! Alarming, yes, but smoking a cigarette whilst not wearing a hat can hardly be considered an attack.
Oh, no, they were overheard discussing a plan to catch the train carrying Winston Churchill, to present him with an incendiary pie, set to go off in his face! Goodness! - How terrible! - Thrilling! The ladies were arrested and the pie was taken to the quarry and exploded from a distance.
Imagine that! I wonder what sort of pie it was? I assume it was a fruit-based pie as the boiling point of jam is 275 degrees Fahrenheit.
And flaky pastry would have acted as pie crust shrapnel.
Yes, terrifying.
Quite! What I couldn't fathom is why suffragettes would want to attack such a fine gentleman.
A Boer War hero! Because he is vehemently opposed to female suffrage.
I see.
Who is Winston Churchill? He's the Home Secretary, Eva.
Well, perhaps he should have stayed at home then.
Yes, very good, Eva.
I knew Winston's mother, Lady Randy.
Wonderful woman, so generous with her husbands! Oh, Miss Emily.
Those put-upon vagabonds will be most grateful.
I brought shirts, collars, a tweed suit, two pairs of plus fours and some obsolete sock suspenders.
Banbury shall have the smartest unfortunates in the shire! Isn't it curious how we truss ourselves up? Yes, quite.
Do you suspend your socks, Thomas? I confess I do.
Am I too terribly decadent? No.
There is nothing more distracting than the sensation of a stocking being pulled slowly down an unsuspended leg.
I'm here.
I'm here.
Oh, hello, Helen! I'm glad you decided to come with us! Don't be.
I haven't.
Where is Emily? In the kitchen.
With Thomas.
Emily! Put down your father's suspenders and come out at once! What are you doing? Thomas is clothing the unfortunates because he's brave and kind.
Oh, is he? Well, since you undertook to strip your father's entire closet bare, Lawrence was forced to attend the Annual General Meeting of Ball Bearing Manufacturers in a sports jacket! There are men in Banbury who have never even owned a sock let alone a sports jacket.
This is not a discussion.
- Come out of this kitchen at once.
- I shan't.
Then you shan't join Margaret's pointless jaunt to London! It's hardly a jaunt, Helen.
The Banbury Intricate Craft Circle Politely Requests Women's Suffrage No, Emily, don't sit, no time.
has secured an appointment at the London office of The Official Righteous Union of Male Patriarchy.
And then we're going to the shops.
You are meeting with TRUMP? No, we are meeting with TORUMP.
That's what I said, T-O-R-U-M-P - trump.
No, you said "trump".
I am well aware of what I said, Margaret, and I am well aware of the T-O-R-U-M-P - trump.
Lawrence and I are supporters of the society and of its leader, Sir Bismuth Albemarle.
Yes, I am looking forward to my suffrage presentation and a heated intellectual exchange with Sir Bismuth when we take tea with him at four o'clock this afternoon, which is in Oh, goodness! only six hours' time.
You are taking tea with Sir Bismuth Albemarle, the great physician and thinker? The lady-hater and anti-suffrage campaigner - yes.
I simply adore Sir Bismuth's work! Lawrence and I quote to each other from The Unexpurgated Case Against Female Suffrage.
Indeed, I am currently reading his latest collected essays.
Oh, as am I! D'you mean this drivel? 'Tis Pity She's a Woman.
"A study on the limitations and reverberations "of a hysterical female physiognomy.
"Why women are incapable of mental reason.
" Of course they're capable.
But are they though? No, they are not, and I quote, "Why not let women vote or make any significant decisions? "The answer is simple.
"Due to the phenomenon of the detached femalia, "which wander giddy and illogical "amongst the muddled organs of the female internum, "it is my empirical medical conclusion that all women are mad and stupid.
" Does that include you, Helen? I cannot fathom why you would heed such nonsense.
You, a woman neither mad nor stupid.
Thank you, Margaret, but I find that, by accepting the natural order of things, I garner a peace of mind and strength which eludes those women hellbent on asserting their rights and freedom.
How can any woman have a peace of mind in a society that continually and openly asserts her inferiority? Well, why don't you come with us and meet this Biswas Aftermath, seeing as you like him so much? Please, no.
While I detest spontaneity of any kind I most certainly will come! No, don't sit.
There's no time.
Oh! Perhaps I can persuade him to sign my copy of his diatribe against women?! Right, well, I am very glad you've decided to join us.
We are leaving now for the 11.
Come along everybody.
Because the ten-minute journey to the station is going to take us two hours.
Ladies, did you intend to travel - by train? - No.
Yes, Frank, I know it's early but we must be prepared for any unforeseen delays.
What about foreseen delays? Only, on account of the BFSA's incendiary pie plot, Banbury station has been closed to all people of the woman kind! All women are banned from Banbury station? - Yes.
- Does that mean us? Yes.
Oh, well, we shall just go from King's Sutton station instead! It is rather far Approximately five miles.
Yes, and begging your pardon, the police are on the lookout for suspiciously suffragetty gaggles of women.
Oh, I'm so sorry, everybody.
What a disappointment! I won't be able to get my essential fripperies now.
Oh, I'll never see the Emperor's weapon again! Perhaps we could take Frank's bike? Will we all fit? No, Eva.
But, Margaret, you could take Frank's bike and go on behalf of all of us to crush Sir Bismuth.
Yes! Take Lady Agatha! Everyone else has.
May I borrow your iron steed, Frank? I would be most distraught should anything happen.
Don't worry, Frank.
I'll be perfectly fine! I was thinking of my bicycle.
Oh, I see.
I will cherish her, I promise.
Are you sure it is fitting for a woman of your standing to bicycle? It's 1910, Frank! Women have been wheeling about for years.
Yes, but you have no cycling knickers.
- What if a breeze were to - Yes? Nothing.
Please, Frank? The future of the female suffrage movement could be in yours and Lady Agatha's hands! - Very well.
- Thank you.
The BICCPRWS and the women of Britain are in your debt! Margaret, I hate to ask you this Oh, no.
Don't worry, Helen, ask away! Oh, I'm not worried.
I genuinely hate to ask you.
Would you be so kind as to take my book to be signed by Sir Bismuth? Er, yes, well Ask him to make it out to "Mrs Bute - "a woman thrilled for her husband's hand to be upper".
If I must.
You're sure you know how it all works? Oh, yes, Frank! I recently attended a lecture on gyroscopes at the Royal Locomotion Society.
There was a fascinating aside on bicycles.
The gyroscopic force of the front wheel, its mass and the spontaneous turn of the handlebars all act together to keep the bicycle rolling forwards.
Do you see? It's very simple.
But have you ever actually ridden a bicycle? No.
But really, Frank, how hard can it be? Lady Agatha! - Margaret! - I'm all right.
I'm quite all right.
Well, that's the end of that adventure.
No, no! When one is thrown from a horse, one must persevere and leap straight back in the saddle.
Once again, we are thwarted! Once again, women are barred from the world! - Treacle loaf anyone? - No, thank you.
Don't feel too inadequate, ineffectual and hopeless, Margaret.
- I don't.
- Oh! Perhaps you should.
Sir Bismuth explains quite clearly that women are not physiognomically capable of hand-pedal coordination.
You pedal with your feet, Helen, not your hands.
You do if you can ride a bike.
Face it, Margaret - "'Tis pity you're a woman"! One day, I believe that women will move freely in an androgynous, sexless utopia! Oh, I hope I'm dead by then.
You will be, Mother, rest assured.
Right, ladies, I'm off.
I'm going to take Agatha for a spin.
Oh, hello, Frank! Good day, sir.
Hello, everyone.
Just thought I'd pop in on my way to Oxford.
Oooh! Treacle loaf, Margaret - delicious! Shall I be mother? - Gwen! Is it?! It is you! - But - Is it really Gwen? - Gwen, you're dressed as a man.
Well spotted.
Yes, I'm in my man clothes.
Man clothes? Yes, man clothes, you know, that you wear to get round the bother of being born a woman.
We've all done it, haven't we? No, Gwen, we most certainly have not.
Speak for yourself.
What if you have to go somewhere women can't? You don't go there, because you are a woman.
I think it's splendid.
Have you always done it? I'd've been no good to Mother had she not been able to put me in a cloth cap and pass me off as a boy when it was needed.
But when would you need to be a boy? To pop down the bookie's when Mother had a hunch or take Father's place down the pit when he went doolally tap.
I was even a merchant seaman for two days until I realised that I'd have to psschh! over the side.
I had to abandon ship.
Well, I fell overboard.
How thrilling! Do you do it often? Not so much these days, but when I do, it all comes flooding back.
It's a bit like riding a bike.
Can you ride a bike, Gwen? Oh, yes! Much easier in trousers! Right, I'd best be off.
I've got me train to catch in 15 minutes.
But you'll never make it! And they've banned women from the station.
I know! Gwen! You are a genius! Oooh! Hang on! The key to the privy.
Oh, Mother will be pleased.
Gwen you're so magnificently clever! Oh, not really, no.
I should have probably checked Father's waistcoat in the first place! You know, Gwen, I have always desired the manly pleasure of facial furniture.
Oh, why don't you grow some? I am ashamed to admit that I cannot.
A fact which has caused my fellow men much consternation.
Yes, it is most men's belief that without facial hair one is merely weak and feckless.
Oh, Thomas, that's just not true! Yes, I have endured such taunts.
Lady cheeks, hairless wonder bumface.
Oh, dear, I am sorry.
I don't have that problem.
I can give myself as much or as little whiskers as I desire.
Would that I could enjoy the tickle of a pencil tache, the thrill of a mutton chop, the hearty exhilaration of a box beard.
Well, with a lock or two of hair, my nail scissors and some rabbit glue you can have whatever you want! Do you mean a Van Dyke? Perhaps a handlebar puff.
Or even, but no, dare I? A full chin curtain? Oh, Grandmama, that hat looks splendid! Doesn't it? I must say, before, my only physical concern was the girth of my fingers.
But were we to permanently wear male reach-me-downs I should also have to concern myself with the chunk of my calf and the heft of my derriére! Oh, nonsense, Eva! In 100 years' time when women are trouser-wearing voters, we shall be evaluated on our wit, not our waist size.
Imagine that! Yes, we will be admired for our opinions, not our pins! Today of all days, it is not our derriéres that should concern us.
It's our demeanours.
In order to pass undetected, we must cloak ourselves in the ways of maleness! I have invented a male name for myself.
I shall be Ernest Trueheart - a brave mountaineer and scientist who is allergic to tomatoes and has hereditary ganglions like Thomas.
Who will you be, Mummy? Oh, I will be, um Hel nry Bute.
If you must.
I shall be Charlie Moore - husband.
After my husband, Charlie Moore.
- Imaginative.
- Thank you.
Who will you be, Margaret? Oh, I shall be Northcote Brusk - novelist, thinker, inventor, likes cheese, excellent on the piano.
Brilliant, Margaret.
Sorry, Northcote.
And you, Grandmama? I shall be Sir Ozymandias Silk.
Traveller, poet, artist, wonderful lover.
What do you think, Master Thomas? Very convincing.
You look very convincing too, Master Thomas! Yes, Mrs Moore, I am a man.
I should have had mutton chops, Mother.
This moustache makes me look like a walrus.
It's not the moustache.
It's a very odd effect that as my alter ego, Northcote Brusk, my timekeeping anxiety seems to have completely disappeared.
I don't seem to care if I'm late at all now.
It's very liberating.
- What is your male name, Gwen? - John.
Oh! My John's called John.
So, ladies - a few tips if you want to pass as men.
First, walk as if you've got a trouser goitre or at least a septic upper leg.
Yes, that's it, good, good, good.
Now, add in the occasional pocket shuffle.
- Pocket shuffle, Gwen? - Pocket shuffle.
I don't have any pockets.
Oh, you can do it on the outside pocket shuffle! And speak louder and deeper than everyone else.
- Louder and deeper.
- How do you do? Good lad! Good lad! - Good show! Hear, hear! - Good day! On your own, Eva.
On your own.
My name is Charlie Moore.
I think perhaps Charlie is a mute.
All right.
Anything else, Gwen? Yes, finally, most importantly, you need a firm, manly handshake.
- How do you do? - Ernest Trueheart.
Helnry Bute.
- Ow! - Oh, sorry, Thomas No, no, quite all right.
Shall we? - Yes, let us go! - Come on, chaps, follow me.
- Plenty of time, no hurry! - After you, sir.
We did it! We slipped through the net in our masculine guises! We were fortunate the station master was remiss in his duties.
Too busy searching under the train for suffragettes clinging to the undercarriage.
I never realised that facial furniture would garner such aggressive attention from my fellow men.
I've had no bother.
I do wish this train would move.
We shall be late for our appointment with Sir Bismuth.
Not that I care! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Sh! Sh! Men! Act natural.
As we are were.
Oh! We shall surely be discovered! - Oh, it's my husband! - And Daddy! Look! Lawrence looks ridiculous in that sports jacket.
Why is this blasted train not moving? Suffragettes on the track.
Insufferable-gettes, more like! - Yes, dratted nuisances.
- Well, between you and me, - Larry - Lawrence.
Lawrence, I'm grateful for them.
My little woman has herself a whopper of a shopping spree lined up.
Wanted double her pin money and hat stipend.
A chap can't say no.
My wife is the model of thriftiness.
She has no use for hats or other prettifying fripperies.
If only she could teach Eva some housekeeping tricks.
I mean, I know all the dresses and the doodads are entirely for my benefit, but frankly I'm happiest when she's dressed as God intended, what? Hmm.
Well, Helen and I both pay very little attention to her appearance.
Oh, really? What else is a wife for? Oh, I think of Helen less as a wife and more as a colleague.
Ah, yes.
Well, we all have our own ways of keeping our ladies in line.
My little pudding is never more placid than when she's in the family way, which is all the time.
How many have you got now? What, wives? Oh just the one! Ha-ha! Just the No, I lost count of the litter when she popped out number 14.
14? Almost got enough - for a rugger team! - Oh, sadly not, old man.
Just the one boy, tiny John.
What's a fellow to do with so many fillies in the paddock? Helen and I drew the line at two.
One of each.
We both agreed we had no use for further progeny.
The boy will be a captain of industry, of course, and dear Emily could have any man she chooses but she's got herself all pie-eyed about some pimply poodlefaker.
- And what's he like? - I've never met him.
Still, more than one daughter's superfluous.
Oh, count yourself lucky.
I've got to marry off 13 of them! Now, that's superfluous.
Yes! What does "superfluous" mean? - Er, superb.
- As good old Sir Bismuth says "Where would we be without our precious, mad, stupid little women?" Much richer.
Hello! Haven't we met? Were you at Harrow? Do you cricket? The Pipe Society? Henley? Royal Enclosure? Clay pigeon shooting? Well, come on, man, cat got your tongue? I'm a mute.
Wait a minute I've got it.
We weekended at the FitzSimmons' last season, didn't we? When they poured champagne into the lake and we all swam in the nuddy?! Ha-ha, remember that! Oh - Charles? - Eh? There's something very strange going on here.
- Oh, really? - You sir! Is that a false beard? Are you posing as a gentleman? No, sir I am a gentleman, as are we all gentlemen in this full carriage of gentlemen.
Yes, yes.
Men! Men! Men! Then why are you in disguise? No gentleman I know would dream of deceiving his fellow gentlemen by simulating facial bushyness.
Out with it, bumface! Stop clegging on the boy.
It's not his fault he can't grow a beard as God intended.
- Now steady on, laddie - Ah, no, I'm no laddie, I'm a man.
Now d'you want to see yourself out before you insult any more of these good gentlemen and I do summat I'll regret? Yes Well, perhaps we should seat ourselves elsewhere.
- Come, Charles! - Yes.
I'm keeping my eye on that rangy one.
Thought he was going to take a swing at me! Thank you, Gwen.
- John.
- John.
Thank you, John.
I wonder why he was swimming in the nuddy? Ah, perhaps he forgot his bathers? Yes.
Stop fussing, man.
I shall sit where I please.
Very well, sir.
There's a seat here.
Oh Good day, gentlemen.
Good day! All off to London? Yes! 'Appen we have an appointment with a Bismuth Beeswax Albumath.
Who? Bismuth Albemarle! Bizzo Albemarle?! What do you want with that old curmudgeon? You know him? Know him? Put it this way - if I weren't me, I'd be him.
The man is a legend.
He can sink a gallon of claret without drawing breath, outsmart every don in Oxford, swear in Greek, drive in reverse without even looking, kill a swan.
An outstanding man.
Anything Bizzo can't do? Like respect women? Oh, no, Bizzo doesn't mind fillies, just thinks they ought to stick to what they're best at.
What do you chaps want with Bizzo, anyways? We intend to change his mind about us - them! Women.
About women.
Why is that of concern to you? Because we are men Yes, yes, yes, we are.
who wholly support the suffrage cause.
- That's right! - Not me.
Here's a tip for you boys.
If you want to outdo Bizzo, don't.
Go home.
He will demolish you.
Will he demolish an emotive ballad honouring history's unsung heroines? Will he demolish an exhaustive dismantling of his 67-page invective 'Tis Pity She's A Woman? Will he demolish a cogent suffrage treatise delivered in rhyming couplets? Yes, he will.
I don't know why you suffrages bother.
You're fighting a battle you are never going to win.
Stop whingeing! Give up.
We will never give up, sir.
We will fight, sir, and we will win.
We will keep fighting like men.
As men.
We are men.
Men, men! We shall fight with growing strength and growing confidence.
- Aye! - Yes! We will defend our women's right to vote, whatever the cost.
Yes! - We will fight in the fields.
- Yes! - We will fight in the streets.
- Yes! - We will fight in the hills.
- Yes! We will fight on the beaches.
The beaches? What with your bucket and spades? Oh, now I'm scared! We shall never surrender! Absolute balderdash, sir, but I like the way you said it.
You may defend the rights of women wherever you choose, but you cannot alter the facts.
As Sir Bismuth puts it, "There exists in the world a natural order, "at the head of which is the human male" Human male.
"While there will always be aberrations, "the male is irrefutably superior in physique and in intellect.
" The ladies may not like it but they like the pin money they receive from their husbands, what?! Hear, hear! Bravo, sir! - Oh! - Ooh! And a firm handshake to boot.
- Name - Bute.
Hel nry Bute.
Well, Helnry Bute Bizzo could not have put it better were he here himself, all 6 foot 5, and 28 gout-ridden stone of him! I see you are a man who has no respect for women.
Thank you.
Sir, there's bad news.
The line's been closed as suffragettes have now dug up a section of the track and they're refusing to say where they've put it.
How tiresome.
My dear mother always said suffragettes should be forcibly fed common sense! There's a car waiting for you outside, sir! Gentlemen, I'd offer you a ride, but I cannot abide what you stand for.
But to you, sir the doors of TORUMP are always open.
If only we had a few more clear-thinking, rational chaps like you in the Cabinet.
Officer! Yes, Mr Churchill! Did he say Churchill?! Winston Churchill! Remind me again Winston Churchill has offered me a place in the Cabinet! What an honour, Helen.
A seat at the highest table in the land.
"'Tis pity you're a woman.