To Walk Invisible

This programme contains some strong language

and some scenes which some viewers may find upsetting.

"We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air.

"We dug a spring in infancy Of water pure and fair.

"We sowed in youth a mustard seed,

"We cut an almond rod;

"We're now grown up to riper age - Are they withered in the sod?

"Are they blighted failed and faded,

"Are they moulded back to clay?

"For life is darkly shaded; And its joys fleet fast away."

What the hell is going on?

Qui sont ces gens?!

They'll tear us limb from limb.

I've crossed the Arctic and seen nothing like it.

-Down on them! Instantly!

-Run!

Know you that I give into your protection - but not for your own -

these mortals whom you hold in your hands.

-What's yours called?

-Wellesley.

-This is Gravey.

-Because he looks a bit grave.

-Mine's called...

-Waiting Boy.

-Is it? Why?

Because he's a queer looking little thing, Anne. Much like yourself.

-Look who's talking.

-This is Sneaky.

Thou art under my protection. I will watch over thy life,

for I tell you all - one day... you shall be kings.

Yes!

BELL TOLLS

"Dear Ellen. It was ten o'clock when I got home.

"I found Branwell ill.

"He is so very often these days, owing to his own fault.

"I was not therefore surprised at first, but when Anne informed me of

"the immediate cause of his present illness, I was greatly shocked."

-Charlotte! How was the journey?

-Pleasant.

-How was Miss Nussey?

-Well.

Did my box arrive safely?

-In our room, we took it up, me and Emily.

-What's...?

-Branwell.

He's been drinking. He's had a letter. From Mr Robinson.

This last Thursday. He's been dismissed.

How does he do it?

-It's every job he's ever had.

-I know, but this is different.

-How?

Nothing was spelled out in the letter. But he...

Him and Mrs Robinson...

I had reason to know that they were...

carrying on.

With one another. And I don't know, I can only assume,

that Mr Robinson's found out, and that's what it's about.

Carrying on? How?

Congress? Mr Robinson's wife?

It's why I resigned. I couldn't look people in the face.

I've known for months. Papa doesn't know.

He just knows he's been dismissed,

he doesn't know why. Emily does. I told her.

-And of course we don't know that IS the reason.

-Where is Emily?

You must have some idea what this is about!

You think repeating the question enough times, over and over,

is suddenly going to make me able to answer it?

And if not then someone must write to the man

and ask for an explanation!

He hates me! He's not going to give any kind of an explanation.

It's an excuse to get rid of me!

He's a monster, he's a bully, he's a law unto himself. He's an idiot.

Why does he hate you? Why does he need a reason to get rid of you?

Because he's old, he's ill and he's jealous of me!

No, no, no. That doesn't make any sense!

There must have been a misunderstanding.

Has someone misrepresented you to him?

Just... GOD!

This HOUSE! Just go to bed and stop asking me fucking questions!

If you don't like this house, don't stay in it.

There's none of us'll miss you, not when you're like this.

I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!

Tell him.

Branwell's been at it.

With his employer's wife.

She was lonely.

She was lonely!

THE CHILDREN YELL

'Tis a shame you're embarked on this course of myopic self-destruction,

for I imagine you and I might - under better circumstances -

have made very stimulating company for one another!

I despise everything you stand for! Revolution is in the air!

Only a fool like you, sir, would ignore it!

If the parson and your Aunt Branwell were in,

you'd noan make so much din!

They all think you're right quiet

and studious down in t'village, y'know!

YELLING CONTINUES

Mr Brown's here.

"Another outrage has happened in Ireland.

"A party of Orangemen at Armagh, on the 12th,

"unhappily disregarding the advice given them,

-"of abstaining from processions..."

-Are you fit, lad?

Yeah, I'm just...

"..conducting themselves with propriety."

KNOCK AT DOOR

John's here. We're off.

-Don't get up.

-No, no. I'd like to see him.

-How are you today, John?

-I'm very well, thank you, Mr Bronte.

Good, good.

Well, travel safely.

Picked a fine day for it, eh?

You, er, look after yourself.

Thank you.

Well...

I think, with kindness and understanding and prayer,

we might still be able...

in spite of his naivety and...his nonsense...

..be able to get him back onto a proper path.

Will you bring us all something back from Liverpool, Father?

You behave yersen. And then we'll see.

You dozy bastard.

Getting caught.

"Anne left her situation at Thorp Green of her own accord, June 1845.

"Branwell...left.

"We are all in decent health only that Papa

"has a complaint in his eyes and with the exception of Branwell,

"who I hope will be better and do better here after.

"I am seldom more ever troubled with nothing to do

"and merely desiring that everybody could be as comfortable as myself

"and as undesponding of them,

"we should have a very tolerable world of it."

They've set off.

-Good.

-Call me old-fashioned,

but I think it's nice having everybody back at home.

-In theory.

-What happened?

-You heard the shouting.

-I had my pillow over my ears

-so I didn't catch the details.

-Lucky you.

So he's...been mucking about,

and by way of punishment,

he's packed off on holiday for a week with Martha's father?

Packed off on holiday for a week, or got shot off for a few days.

It's all a question of how you might choose to look at it.

-Tabby.

-Well, if that's how you feel.

-Do you still write stories?

-Sometimes.

About Gondal?

When we can.

-Emily as well?

-You've been here with her more than I have, surely.

-We never talk about it.

-Never?

Do you? Write?

-Still?

-Not so much.

What about the infernal world?

I relinquished my pen.

-Why?

-Because it frightened me.

Threatened to make the real world seem...

pointless. And colourless and drab.

And that way lies madness.

You know, the real world is what it is, but we must live in it, so...

-You should write, if it makes you happy.

-I worry about my eyes.

And I think, as well... when I got that reply from Southey -

"Literature cannot be the business of a woman's life."

At the time I brushed it off.

But the longer I've dwelt on it, the older I've got,

the more I've thought...

..what's the point?

The point...for me...

..I'm never more alive than when I write.

You're the same, surely.

But with no prospect of publication?

It's just playing at it, isn't it?

Are we playing then, or what?

Does it ever bother you that we might be getting...

a bit old? For that.

-You weren't saying that two weeks ago in York.

-No, well...

I didn't want to spoil things in York.

It's something I've been thinking for a while.

-Well, what did you come out with me for then?

-To talk.

-What about?

-Things. At home. Do you never think about...?

What?

The future!

What are we without Papa and Branwell?

Papa won't... He won't live forever.

And he's blind, and that house, our house,

it belongs to the Church trustees, not us.

And Branwell! What's he doing?

What's he thinking that he has such a hopeless grasp

on the realities of what comes next?

Are we nothing to him? Does he even see us?

If we don't make something of ourselves,

and God knows we've been trying,

I've been trying...

I was a governess at that ludicrous place for five years!

What will we do, Emily? What will...

What will we be?

It was when I came back from Roe Head.

And he was there, at home, Branwell.

And he wasn't supposed to be.

You'd gone. You and Charlotte. You'd gone off back to Roe Head.

And he was supposed to be in London,

trying to get his foot in the door at the Royal Academy.

That's when I knew what a liar he was.

-Sharpers?

-Thieves!

-So what?

-They attacked you? You were robbed?

-Four of them?!

-I think four.

In broad daylight? That's...

Well, surely someone saw what happened?

-You didn't even get there?

-No!

It was just after I arrived at the coaching inn

at St Martin Le Grand, and I knew my way around.

From the maps in my head.

But London...the whole thing is so much bigger than I imagined.

And you didn't tell me how big it was, did ya?

And I didn't know who to turn to, with no money. So, I came home!

Well, er... Witnesses.

Surely someone must have seen what happened.

There were no witnesses.

Everyone just turned around and went about their business!

So all 30 shillings?

-Gone?

-YES!

Oh!

Then, when Aunt Branwell went to bed and Papa went back to his study,

I said to him, "You're lying."

And he admitted it.

He didn't even make it to London,

never mind any business at any Royal Academy.

He said he was about to get on the high-flier, in Bradford,

with his paintings and his sketches.

But then, when he was faced with the reality of setting off for London,

he realised that they just... weren't that good.

They might look well enough at home,

but next to a Lawrence, or a Gainsborough...

So he fortified himself, he said,

to get courage to get on the next coach, which was his intention.

But he didn't.

He spent four days in Bradford.

Drunk and miserable and dreaming up some trash

that he thought everyone at home would be blown enough to believe.

He spent 30 shillings on drink, in four days?

I could've cheerfully murdered him, to start with. And then...

Actually I felt sorry for him.

They always expected so much of him.

More, probably, than he was ever capable of.

And I just thought, "Thank God I'm not you."

It's disappointing, I know.

And I'm angry with him too. He humiliated me at Thorp Green,

and he knew what he was doing.

But we shouldn't give up on him, should we?

No, we shouldn't give up on him. But we should see him for what he is.

Not what he isn't. It's not fair on him.

-I sometimes think Charlotte despises him.

-Mm, well...

Charlotte has her own demons.

What demons?

Look, you know how low she's been? For months.

To the point of making herself ill,

and convincing herself she's going blind.

-Yes?

-Well, you know when we were in Brussels?

-Monsieur Heger?

-Yes.

Well...she was very...

taken...with him.

Not when I was there. This was after Aunt Branwell died,

when I stayed at home.

She became...

..obsessed with him.

He was married.

That's why she left. At finish.

"My dear Leyland,

"I returned yesterday

"from a week's journey to Liverpool and North Wales,

"but I found, during my absence,

"that wherever I went, a certain woman, robed in black

"and calling herself Misery, walked by my side,

"and leant on my arm as affectionately

"as if she were my legal wife.

"Like some other husbands, I could have spared her presence."

For the food we are about to receive,

may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.

-Is she feeding those dogs again?

-No.

Chicken, please.

More tea.

Branwell...

-Yeah?

-Tell us something about...Liverpool.

All right. Well, the docks were extraordinary.

-Uh-huh?

-We saw a black man. A blackamoor, a Creole.

He really was black. So dark, Papa.

-Ah?

-And I spoke to him.

Didn't really understand what he was saying

and I don't think he understood a word I was saying either

but it was just...fascinating.

I think he was something on one of the ships.

MUFFLED LAUGHTER

CHUCKLING

Yes?

If you...

If you don't...

get on top of...

of this habit...

when things don't go right for you,

if you can't exercise some restraint,

-then it'll take over your life, Branwell.

-Don't be ridiculous.

I'm not being ridiculous.

-It'll destroy you.

-Mm.

Potentially, you still have so much to offer, Branwell.

-You need a plan.

-I've got plans.

-Have you?

And can you share them? With anyone?

-D'you know what I've realised?

-What?

There's no money in poetry.

Novels. That's where the money is.

Whilst the composition of a poem

demands the utmost stretch of a man's intellect...

..and for what? £10 at best.

I could hum a tune and smoke a cigar

and I'd have a novel written.

No-one will publish a novel by an unknown author.

I've had nine poems published in the Halifax Guardian.

It's only Halifax, I know, but it is widely enough read.

You'd need a good story for a novel.

Oh, when was I ever short of a story?

-Are you still thinking about going to Paris?

-I don't think it's likely.

-At the moment.

-Why? It might do you good.

Are you still hell-bent on making yourself poorly?

I'm not...poorly.

I'm just struggling to...

Why is it that a woman's lot is so very different to a man's?

I've never felt inferior. Have you? Intellectually?

Why is it that we have so very few opportunities?

You or I could do almost anything we set our minds to. But no.

All we can realistically plan is a school, a modest enough school,

that no-one wants to come to.

Why is it that the woman's lot is to be perpetually infantilised...

..or else invisible and powerless to do anything about it?

Did he never write back to you, then?

Heger?

No.

Anne says you've written some poems.

-Have you ever thought about publishing them?

-No.

It's just the...

The thing is, you see... I've written some verses too...

and if between us we could accumulate enough material

to think about publishing a small volume...

And have it pored over and rubbished and ridiculed

by anyone who might choose to waste their money on it? Not likely.

"He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,

"With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.

"Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,

"And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire."

"High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending,

"Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;

"Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,

"Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,

"Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,

"Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars."

"Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;

"My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;

"Its wings are almost free - its home, its harbour found,

"Measuring the gulf, it stoops and dares the final bound."

"O dreadful is the check - intense the agony -

"When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;

"When the pulse begins to throb - the brain to think again -

"The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

"Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;

"The more that anguish racks the earlier it will bless;

"And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,

"If it but herald Death, the vision is divine."

BANGING

FOOTSTEPS ON STAIRS

What's the matter? What's the matter?

Somebody has been in my room!

-Somebody?

-Somebody has been through my things.

And not had the wit, when they put them back,

-to realise that everything was in a certain order

-Well, who?

-We haven't, I haven't.

-You haven't.

You wouldn't. I know that.

Branwell's in Halifax.

It's safe to assume Papa couldn't see to do it,

and anyway why would he bother?

Tabby's got better things to do and Martha can't read that well.

Yet, she also has too much dignity

and respect for other people's things!

I shouldn't have...I know.

But I'm not sorry. I mean, I am sorry!

Look, Emily.

Your poems are...

They're extraordinary.

I know they're private, I know they're personal -

they're 1,001 things, but they're not something to keep hidden.

I admit it was curiosity, but not idle curiosity, I hope,

-but something more...noble.

-Noble?!

Going in people's bedrooms? Going through people's things?

No woman, no-one, has ever written poetry like this!

Nothing I've read, nothing I can think of,

nothing published, is its equal.

Emily...they're exceptional.

They're...astonishing.

I couldn't breathe when I was reading them.

I know you're angry and I know what I did is unforgivable.

Except, please, see that it isn't.

You...disgust me.

You can't begin to imagine how much.

You stay out of my room and you don't speak to me.

You don't speak to me generally and you don't speak to me specifically

about your misguided, tedious, grubby little publishing plans.

What on earth is the matter?

She has been in people's bedrooms going through people's things!

I'm putting a lock on that door!

She? What happened?

-Charlotte?

-Nothing.

It was nothing. I went in her bedroom.

-Oh!

-HE SIGHS

And, um, where is Branwell?

-Halifax.

-He's where?

-Halifax.

Oh. And is he due in? Tonight?

-Or have we to lock the back door?

-I imagine he's taken a key.

Right.

All right! I made a mistake.

Except I didn't!

They're...

Have you read them?

No.

She's never asked me to.

What did she mean about your "grubby little publishing plans?"

They're not without charm.

It's not just the poems, you see.

I'm writing this, too.

It's a novel.

It's not Gondal and Gaaldine.

It's more about how things are in the real world.

It's about being a governess, it's all...

things I've seen and heard and witnessed.

-The thing is, you see, I...

-This is beautifully written.

I would be ready.

To try and publish. I would be ready to risk failure.

And who knows? This is what we've done all our lives.

Write. We've lived in our heads.

I don't regard the attempt to do something with it as venal.

It's more venal selling ourselves as governesses

when we find it such a trial.

So long as we approached it carefully, wisely,

-and not make fools of ourselves, then surely...

-The plan...

would be to try to publish a volume of poetry first.

And, then, if that met with a modicum of success,

and something of a name was established,

then we could each risk a work of fiction.

I've toyed with writing something about...Brussels.

I mean, I don't even know if that's the etiquette.

But I could write to a publishing house and find out.

Your poems are competent...

and charming.

And I'm no great poet myself,

but Emily's contribution could elevate a small volume

into something...

..actually worth spending a few shillings on.

-I feel sorry for her.

-Why?

Same reason I feel sorry for Branwell.

So much is expected of her. Being the eldest.

And not even the eldest. By accident the eldest.

Bossiest. She was bossy when Maria and Elizabeth were still alive,

I remember it. Vividly.

It's being so bossy that's stunted her growth.

She's ambitious.

For all of us.

And I can see nothing wrong with that.

I realise some people might think it's vulgar, but, Emily,

we were born writing, and if we're cautious, if we're clever,

and we are, and if we disguise our real selves and our sex...

Right, that's done.

Tabby! I'm off down the...hill.

It's wonderful how quiet they all think she is in t'village

and how loud she is at home.

You can come with me, if you want.

Have you ever thought about writing something that's not Gondal?

Something more...not princesses and emperors, more just...

what happens in the real world.

You know when I worked in Halifax? At that school at Law Hill.

-Yes.

-Miss Patchett, that ran it, she told me this tale.

And I've often thought it'd make a story. A novel.

What was it about?

This man, this lad. Jack Sharp. Have I never told you this?

It serves us well enough, but it's not an attractive building, I know.

It has a rather curious history.

It was built out of spite, apparently, 60 years ago,

by a man called Jack Sharp.

So, there's this family, the Walkers.

They own Walterclough Hall, this big house, just above Halifax,

it's been in the family for generations.

They're woollen manufacturers - aren't they all?

Anyway, John Walker has four children - two boys and two girls -

and he's adopted this nephew, Jack Sharp.

Richard and John, the two sons, were educated well,

and they ended up making their livings in London.

Jack stayed at home with the girls, Grace and Mary,

and he was trained up to take over the family business

which suited everyone, because, it seems, he'd always been

old Mr Walker's favourite, the truth be told.

Then when Richard, the eldest son, dies

in some tragic accident somewhere,

old Mr Walker decides to leave the district and he leaves Jack

in charge of his business and Walterclough Hall.

Eventually, some years later, old Mr Walker himself dies,

and the remaining son, John,

in London, inherits everything and gives Jack Sharp,

who he'd never liked, notice to vacate the property forthwith.

But John Walker Jr has the law on his side,

and after enough wrangling, in court, Jack Sharp has to

vacate the property, whether he likes it or not.

But not before he'd trashed the place and taken anything of value.

Furniture...

..the silver, the plate, the linen.

You can only imagine what they all went through.

The anger and the bitterness.

And then he built his own home, a new house.

Here, at Law Hill.

The spot chosen very carefully, people believed,

because it looks down on Walterclough Hall.

And then he filled it with the stash he'd purloined from the Hall.

Like he was goading John Walker to come and fetch it. If he dared.

-And did he dare?

-I doubt it. But the worst thing Jack Sharp did,

one of old Mr Walker's sisters had a son,

grown up by then, called Sam Stead.

And Jack Sharp apprenticed him in the trade,

like he himself had been apprenticed by old Mr Walker.

And he cleverly, calculatedly, bit by bit,

indulged and degraded Sam Stead with gambling and drink,

and the lad was too feckless to know any better.

Why would you do that?

He did it to cause as much misery and humiliation

to the Walkers as he could.

-That's...

-I know. All that anger. It's so...rich.

Anyway, if we're writing novels. I imagine we'll need more paper.

BELLS PEAL

Of course we're not going to use our real names!

But must they be men's names?

When a man writes something, it's what he's written that's judged.

When a woman writes something, it's her that's judged.

We must select the poems we want to use and then...

yes, if we're to be taken seriously and judged fairly

and make anything resembling a profit...

..we must walk invisible.

What about names that are neither men's nor women's?

"Dear Ellen. I reached home a little after 2 o'clock

"all safe and right yesterday.

"Emily and Anne were gone to Keighley to meet me.

"Unfortunately, I had returned by the old road

"while they were gone by the new, and we missed each other."

KNOCK ON DOOR

I'm back home.

Ah, Charlotte...

Miss Bronte!

Mr Nicholls.

"I went into the room where Branwell was, to speak to him.

"It was very forced work to address him.

"I might have spared myself the trouble as he took no notice..."

Branwell?

"..and made no reply."

Branwell.

"He was stupefied."

What's this?

Branwell? What's this?

That's for you.

I opened it by mistake. It said "Esquire."

Give me that.

Proof pages!

How much are you paying them for the privilege of being published?

I assume you're paying them.

I assume you've all clubbed together.

I assume they're not paying you.

You've been sick.

I didn't confirm or deny, I made no reply.

I don't care about him knowing we're paying them,

it's a means to an end as far as I'm concerned.

I care about him talking to people.

-About us.

-Where's he got the money from anyway? To get into that state?

-He screwed a sovereign out of Papa, yesterday.

-He claimed to have

-some pressing matter, and Papa said no.

-And the next thing you know

he's given it to him. God knows how or why and he's trotting off

down the hill to get it changed at the Black Bull.

Perhaps, when he's sober, he'll not even remember he's seen

-our proof sheets.

-I'll write to Aylott and Jones and ask them

to address our correspondence differently in future.

-Was he angry, Branwell?

-What can we do?

We can't include him, the way he is now! He's unmanageable!

We'd never get anything agreed or done!

Anyway, why would Northangerland want to publish with his sisters?

He certainly couldn't afford to contribute to the costs.

We're doing the right thing, Anne.

It's hard, it's tough,

but I'm sorry, he'd drag us down with him if we let him.

Right, come on, you big oaf.

That way. Shift.

TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS

HAMMERING

Hello, Joe.

Well, I never.

Eh?

-How y'doing, lad?

-I've resolved this morning to keep myself busy.

Good.

Good!

Me too.

I thought I'd go and see John Frobisher.

I thought I might write something to set to music.

And he'd be the man. He is still here, isn't he?

-At the church?

-So far as I know, yeah.

Have y'not thought any more about going abroad?

Not... No...

I haven't seen any vacancies,

at least nothing, you know...

Not with the way things are at the moment.

How are things at home?

It's like living with people

who don't speak the same language as I do.

Honestly, Joe. I could be with some tribe

from some far flung corner of the globe

for all I have in common with them.

They despise me,

and I...

I only live there because I'm such a fucking pauper.

They need to get married, those three.

Only, who'd have 'em?

Who'd have any of us?

What a ridiculous set we've become.

And we used to be quite a nice little family.

She...she does love me, you know, Joe, Lydia.

Yeah. Well... You know, I don't know.

I wasn't there, I can't say.

I know everyone thinks I'm...

God knows, but if you saw her,

if only for a moment, you'd get it, you'd see.

What would I see?

That she's the kind of woman that can change a man's life.

His whole...everything.

You've got to look forward, though, eh? Not back.

We've talked about this.

Am I boring you, Leyland?

No, lad. No. You're not boring me.

I worry that you're kidding yerself.

Eh?

A woman her age, in her position.

My only hope is that he'll be dead soon and I'll be asked back.

Hello.

Hello.

Look.

I know.

Ahh, it's beautiful!

The same moon that's shone down since we were children.

Since our ancestors were children.

We're so tiny, really.

Aren't we? So...

..so unimportant.

All of us.

That's right.

DOGS BARK IN THE DISTANCE

Bloody dogs.

HE HOWLS

SHE JOINS HIM

A CACOPHONY OF HOWLING

HE LAUGHS

THEY CONTINUE HOWLING

-There's a fella in Black Bull lookin' for thee.

-Who?

He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'll get my coat.

Shift!

-Is there a fella looking for me?

-Aye, he's through there.

Mr Bronte.

-Someone's dead.

-Mr Robinson.

He passed away three weeks this last Tuesday.

Did you not know?

No. How could I?

Well, it's been in t'papers.

We don't get the York papers.

You're advised...

..to stay away.

Does she not...want me to go to her?

She didn't say that.

No, it isn't her.

It's Mr Evans.

One of the trustees of Mr Robinson's will.

Apparently...he's said if he sees you, he'll shoot you.

Did he send you?

No. No.

She did.

She was concerned you might turn up.

And that Mr Evans might feel obliged to do as he's threatened.

But, as well as that, you should know

by the terms of the will...

..that if she marries again,

she'll forfeit any right to her husband's fortune.

What?

Every penny.

And the house.

She...

She asked me not to tell you how wretched she is.

You'd not recognise her, Mr Bronte.

She's worn herself out these past few months in attendance upon him.

And then, the last few days before his death,

his manner was so mild, so, er...

..conciliatory.

It's a pity to see her, kneeling at her prayers.

In tears.

I suppose we can only guess at

what torments of conscience she might be going through...

..now.

But...she sent you.

Hm.

To beg you to think of your own safety, Mr Bronte.

And her sanity.

Which...

below stairs,

we fear hangs by a thread.

I don't give a damn about my own safety.

No.

But the thing is...

..it's never going to happen, Mr Bronte.

Do you understand?

You're advised to stay away.

Mr Brown! Mr Brown!

-Mr Brown!

-What do you want, you little bugger?

You've to come! Mr Thomas at Black Bull says you've to come!

-Now what?

-God knows.

There were a fella here.

-Paddy? Come on, lad. What's up?

-I sent for thee.

-Look at state he's in...

-No, you've done right.

Come on, lad.

BRANWELL WEEPS

Come on, you're all right.

Nothing I do, John.

-You're just tired.

-Nothing I do.

Let's get you home. Come on.

-Why are we going up here?

-It's where you live.

I don't want to go home, I don't want to go home.

Well, where d'you want to go, then?

Keighley.

I think meself you'd be better off at home.

No, no! I need to go to Thorp Green, John.

I need to go to Thorp Green.

Fair enough, but not just now, not today, not in this state.

Yes, in this state. This is the right state.

Well, you can. I can't, obviously,

it's two o'clock in the afternoon, I've to get to work.

Ah, Mr Nicholls.

He's... He's had a bad do,

he's had a bit of bad news.

Down you go.

Nearly there.

-Careful.

-Nearly there.

BRANWELL SOBS

-Calm down.

-Get off me!

-Please, keep your voice down.

Shut up, I hate you!

Tell me to calm down in my own house!

I want to kill you!

-Get your hands off me!

-Calm down.

-Don't tell me to calm down.

I don't want you to tell me anything.

My house!

Nothing wrong with me.

Look at them, all looking at me!

They're always looking at me!

With your stupid, empty faces!

Please, stop looking at me!

Just stop.

And him!

What do you want, eh?

You've had everything!

You've had everything you're getting.

You just stand there staring at me all the time!

I hate you!

BRANWELL WEEPS AND MUMBLES INCOHERENTLY

Come on upstairs, have a lie down.

Have a few knock-out drops, eh?

Eh? Come on.

Ohh...I feel sick.

Come on.

-Up we go.

-You heard him. Lift me up.

I can do it!

-Sorry.

-Sorry.

"Dear Ellen.

"We have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately.

"The death of Mr Robinson has served Branwell for a pretext

"to throw all about him into hubbub and confusion.

"He's become intolerable.

"To Papa he allows rest neither day nor night and

"he's continually screwing money out of him, sometimes threatening

"that he'll kill himself if it's withheld from him."

BELL RINGS

BRANWELL AND FATHER ARGUE IN ROOM

-Morning, Miss Bronte.

-Thank you.

-BRANWELL:

-Are you stupid as well as blind?

There's nothing out there!

Not for someone who's fit for nothing, like me!

"He says Mrs Robinson is now insane, that her mind is a complete wreck,

"owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr Robinson,

"whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind,

"and grief for having lost him.

"I do not know how much to believe of what he says.

"He now declares that he neither can nor will do anything for himself.

"Good situations have been offered more than once,

"for which by a fortnight's work he might have qualified himself,

"but he will do nothing except drink and make us all wretched."

-BRANWELL:

-Just tell me where it is!

BRANWELL AND FATHER CONTINUE ARGUING

I beg you to recognise it - you are ill!

Two reviews. One from The Critic one from The Athenaeum.

Both anonymous, but both really, really quite good.

Especially about you.

"Refreshing, vigorous poetry, no sickly affectations,

"no namby-pamby, no tedious imitations of familiar strains."

Are they still fighting?

Are you going to be all right?

When I go to Manchester with Papa?

It's only three weeks. I'm more concerned about when he comes back.

He'll need rest and quiet. Not...

Oh, did you get what you wanted?

Yeah, you! Are you proud of yourself, eh?

Wangling money out of a blind man? A man practically in his 70s.

-Fuck off.

-Eh! Come back here and say that. Yeah, go on. Have a go.

-See what happens.

-I haven't time.

No? Just the blind and the elderly then, is it?

Otherwise I would.

Course you would!

It's nothing.

Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

I'm still aiming to finish my story by the end of this week.

There's a handful of passages I'd like to look at again,

but then, depending on where you and Anne are with yours...

Oh, The Professor's finished. As much as it ever will be.

Perhaps we could aim to get them off to a publisher

before you set off for Manchester.

Emily.

Good luck.

And you.

Keep him wrapped up, see.

-All the bags on?

-Everything's under control, Papa.

-Has she heard?

-Yes! I've heard.

-Emily, Emily.

You know where the gun is?

Yes.

We're all in. Thank you.

I'll send you the address as soon as we know what it is.

DRIVER: Walk on!

Branwell doesn't know where the gun is. Does he?

Not any more.

Is he still abed?

Daft question.

You give him no money.

Whatever sob stories he comes up with.

All right?

He won't hit you.

And if he hits me, I'll hit him back. Harder.

"Dear Ellen. Papa and I came here on Wednesday.

"We saw Mr Wilson, the oculist, the same day.

"He pronounced Papa's eyes quite ready for an operation

"and has fixed next Monday for the performance of it."

HE SIGHS WITH PAIN

"Think of us on that day, dear Nell.

"Mr Wilson says we will have to stay here a month at least.

"It will be dreary.

"I wonder how poor Emily and Anne will get on at home with Branwell."

KNOCK ON DOOR, BELL RINGS

Thank you.

"...not able at present to consider publication."

Do you think they actually read them?

Do they look like they've been read?

Who's next on the list?

Chapman and Hall, 186 Strand, London.

RAINFALL, THUNDER RUMBLES

RAIN PATTERS

"There was no possibility...

"..of taking a walk that day."

Do you think it's wrong to write about something very close to home?

Like what?

A woman...

..forced to abandon her home. A good, well-off home,

to protect her child and herself,

because of a change in her husband's character when he sinks into...

You know, addictive behaviour.

And then forced to make her own way in the world.

No. I don't think it's wrong.

I'd never have invented Hindley

if I hadn't been set such a fine example at home.

-Have you seen Branwell today?

-No.

Have you heard him?

"I see a corpse upon the waters lie,

"With eyes turned, swelled and sightless, to the sky

"And arms outstretched, to move as wave on wave

"Upbears it in its boundless billowy grave.

"Not time, but Ocean thins its flowing hair;

"Decay, not sorrow, lays its forehead bare;

"Its members move, but not in thankless toil,

"For seas are milder than this world's turmoil.

"Corruption robs its lip and cheeks of red,

"But wounded vanity grieves not the dead;

"And, though those members hasten to decay,

"No pang of suffering takes their strength away;

"With untormented eye, and heart, and brain,

"Through calm and storm it floats across the main.

"Though love and joy have perished long ago,

"Its bosom suffers not one pang of woe;

"Though weeds and worms its cherished beauty hide,

"It feels not wounded vanity or pride."

WIND BLOWS

Where's ye going, lad?

Haworth.

HORSE WHINNIES

Whoa. Whoa!

Go on!

Oh, hello.

Branwell!

Branwell's here! He's collapsed! He's outside!

Branwell?

Branwell.

Branwell?

One of you go and fetch Dr Wheelhouse.

Get a cloak on!

Let's get him inside.

Branwell, eh?

Come on, son, sit up.

Let's get him in the house. Come on.

DOOR OPENS

-You know where I am.

-Yes, yes.

Thank you for coming, Doctor.

DOOR CLOSES

There is hope.

He's home, he's back with us.

And, with nourishment and abstinence,

and prayer, and peace and quiet,

we may yet hope for better things.

His body has suffered the ravages of gross neglect. And...

abuse.

Self inflicted.

And I cannot, in all conscience,

do other than blame that woman.

That...sinful, hateful woman.

Who, with her more mature years and social advantages,

surely should have shown better responsibility.

He has come very low.

But, you know, sometimes a man must sink to the bottom

before he can turn his life around.

And perhaps that's what's happened, what's happening.

-Here.

-Where's he been?

How's he been living?

Does he want to abstain?

Oh, he has to. He has to abstain.

Halifax, I assume.

I don't know. That's where John always imagined he was.

Or where John knew damned well he was.

Have you talked to him? About abstention?

He's asleep.

It'll only work if he's determined to do it himself.

-Anne.

-Ssh!

I...

Anne.

I should have done more. At Thorp Green.

I should have stopped him, I should've told someone,

I should've...

I'm...complicit in their sin.

No, you're not.

-You were in an impossible position.

-I let it happen.

All I did was leave, in the end...

I was a coward.

A moral coward, before God.

WOMAN LAUGHS

CHORUS OF LAUGHTER

LAUGHTER BECOMES MORE RIOTOUS

Are you all right, lad?

Lydia.

Wake up! Wake up! There's a fire.

HE SHIVERS

I think I've put it out.

Branwell! Branwell! Branwell!

Look at me.

Branwell!

Delirium tremens.

It's when someone

who's been drinking solidly for weeks suddenly stops.

Either through choice or, more usually, lack of funds.

The body doesn't know how to respond, so it goes into spasm.

Will it happen again?

With care...no.

But you do need to keep an eye on him.

He's lucky. You could've been sending

for the undertaker this morning, Mr Bronte, not me.

I think rather than come back in here,

he should stay in my bedroom with me.

For the time being.

I wrote a rhyme for you.

Did you?

Well, I wrote it, and I was thinking about you, after I'd written it.

So...

It goes...

D'you want to hear it?

Yes.

It starts, it's...

The first line is...

It goes...

"No coward soul is mine

"No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere

"I see Heaven's glories shine

"And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear..."

Take your time.

"Oh, God, within my breast...

"Oh, God, within my breast

"Almighty ever-present Deity

"Life That in me hast rest,

"As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

"Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts

"Unutterably vain,

"Worthless as withered weeds

"Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

"To waken doubt in one...

"To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thy infinity,

"So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of Immortality

"With wide-embracing love

"Thy spirit animates eternal years

"Pervades and broods above

"Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

"Though earth and moon were gone

"And suns and universes ceased to be

"And Thou wert left alone

"Every existence would exist in thee

"There is not room for Death

"Nor atom that his might could render void

"Since thou art Being and Breath

"And what thou art may never be destroyed."

There's nothing to be frightened of.

Not for someone like you.

I love you.

Good.

I love you.

-Who?

-Currer. Bell.

-There's no-one of that name here.

-No, I know that, Mr Bronte,

-only it's addressed to here, so...

-That's a mystery.

There's no-one of that name in the entire parish,

as far as I'm aware.

No, well, that's why I thought happen a visitor.

No, no. No visitors.

Not at the moment.

Fair enough, I'll take it back to sorting office then.

-Ah, morning, Miss Bronte.

-Did I hear the name?

-Currer Bell?

-Yes.

Good. That's not me. Obviously. But if I could take it,

I can make sure it reaches him.

Him.

You see, he... Papa, he forgets.

He's... Mr Bell, he's not here.

He was here. But now...he isn't.

So, I can forward it to him. I have his address.

It's a funny name.

Currer. I thought happen it were summat to do wi' Mr Nicholls.

-Arthur Bell Nicholls.

-No. No, no, no, that's... It's just...

That's just coincidental. Can I take it?

Good! Well, that saves me filling in a docket back at sorting office.

I'm much obliged. And so will he be.

How's your...brother? Is he...?

Oh, he...

He's...you know.

Till tomorrow, then! Miss Bronte.

Bye! Bye. Bye.

Where's Emily?

Kitchen. D'you want her?

Letter from a publisher.

Emily!

Thomas Cautley Newby

is offering to publish Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

His terms are steep, but he's offering to publish them,

which is more than anyone else has done, so...

What about The Professor?

No.

-No, he's not offering to publish that.

-Why?

-So you need to think about how you want to approach this.

-No, that's...

We should publish them all together or not at all. Surely.

That's sentimental, it's kind,

but it's nonsense.

This is a solid offer, not a generous one, as I say,

but I'll persevere in sending out The Professor

and with the other one that I've been writing.

But in the meantime, you've got a choice to make. Read it.

He's asking for you to provide an advance of £50

towards the cost of publication.

But clearly he believes it's viable or he wouldn't make the offer.

-This is addressed to Currer Bell.

-Yes. That was interesting.

-You didn't...

-Of course not! I had to...

..fib.

£50.

Perhaps that's normal. Perhaps whoever undertook to publish it

would ask for an advance of that sort.

-We're a risk, we're unknown, despite the poems.

-Because of the poems.

Two copies sold.

You will...persist?

Oh, yes.

BANGING ON DOOR

Yes?

I'd like to speak to Mr Bronte.

The Reverend Bronte?

Mr Patrick Bronte.

What shall I say it's to do with?

Is he in?

Who wants to know?

I'm a bailiff of the county appointed by Mr Rawson,

the magistrate at Halifax.

I'm here about an unpaid debt. Is Mr Bronte in?

I'll...

You'll just have to give me a minute.

SHE KNOCKS ON DOOR

Yes?

The's a man at the door, Mr Bronte.

He says he's here about an unpaid debt.

He says he's been sent by a magistrate at Halifax.

-Now, then, gentlemen. How may I help you?

-Mr Patrick Bronte?

-Yes.

I'm appointed by the Magistrate at Halifax to collect a debt of

£14, 10s 6d,

owing to Mr Crowther of the Commercial in Northgate, Halifax,

and now outstanding for a total of eight months.

What's going on? Branwell, what's going on?

Branwell...

Shift. Shift...

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Not so fast, little fella. Steady now!

You don't want me to hurt you.

And you don't want to hurt me, cos, if you do,

-there'll be bother.

-Get off me!

I think it must be my son that you want.

Your son? Right, well, where is your son, Mr Bronte?

I've got him, Mr Riley!

-Emily! Get him off me! I can't breathe, Emily!

-Stop wriggling!

-Stop struggling! You're not going anywhere!

-I've done nothing wrong!

-You've got the wrong man!

-What were you legging it for then?

And why did you try and hit me, you little twat.

-Get your hands off me!

-Are you Patrick Bronte?

-Up!

Are you Patrick Branwell Bronte?

Answer the man!

I have no idea who these people are.

You owe money to some publican in Halifax.

And if the debt isn't paid,

they'll take you to the debtors' prison.

You'd best pay up then, eh?

Take him.

What?

No! Papa, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

I didn't mean it! I'm sorry! Charlotte! Emily!

We have money. We have money! We have money, please stop them.

-Please.

-Hang on, boys!

-Bring him back.

-If it's all right with you, Reverend,

my colleagues'll keep hold of him until I've got the remittance.

I shall require a receipt.

I shall give you one.

Come on.

It's all right.

"Gentlemen. I have received your communication

"of the 5th instant, for which I thank you.

"Your objection to the want of varied interest in The Professor is,

"I am aware, not without grounds.

"I have a second narrative in three volumes now completed,

"to which I have endeavoured to impart a more vivid interest

"than belongs to The Professor.

"I send you per rail a manuscript, entitled Jane Eyre,

"a novel in three volumes by Currer Bell."

VOICES IN ANOTHER ROOM

-BRANWELL:

-One of us is not going to leave that room alive!

I will either kill you or I will kill myself!

Do you want me to kill myself? Eh?

Cos if I do, old man, you can rest assured

that you'll have driven me to it

with your endless prayers and your drivel!

Can you not understand, can you not get the idea

that the only...only respite I have from the misery of my existence

is being allowed a little bit of something to drink.

I'm only asking for a shilling, for God's sake!

Just...just take it.

He'll just go on and on until he gets what he wants anyway.

And I just...

..I don't always have the energy...

..any more.

I know this is contradicting what I've said before, but...

..my second thoughts are, occasionally,

better than my first ones.

I think you should tell Papa about Jane Eyre.

About how successful it's been.

Why?

I think it would help him to know

that we now seem to have found a means of supporting ourselves,

possibly, in the event of... whenever something happens to him.

Why Jane Eyre?

No, we'll tell him about everything, but just...as a way in.

But then...he'll read it.

Now?

SHE KNOCKS

Hello?

Papa?

Have you got a moment?

Yeah, quickly.

I've...

I've...I've been writing a book.

-A book. And...

-Oh, well...

Would you like to read it?

No, I can't.

I don't have time.

And you know, with your tiny, little writing, I can't see it.

But well done.

The thing is, you see... it's published.

It's been published,

it's a properly published... it's a book in three volumes.

Well, well!

Currer Bell.

-No, he's famous, he's...

-No, that's me.

That's you? What's you?!

That...

I've published under a pseudonym.

Currer Bell. You see, it's the same initials.

And the thing is, it's just about to go into a second edition.

It's...sold a lot of copies.

It's been really quite unusually successful.

There's a stage play of it in rehearsal as we speak

at a theatre in... the Victoria Theatre, in fact,

in London.

It's been so, um...

hugely well received.

But I...

So...you're...?

-You're...?!

-Yes.

And...I've made money.

With the prospect of making quite a lot more.

And if we...if I continue to work hard

and produce the kind of writing

that people are prepared to pay money for,

then it should furnish us with a comfortable existence.

Would you like me to read you some of the reviews?

Well, I...

HE LAUGHS

-Why have you kept it such a secret?

-To protect ourselves.

We've been accused of vulgarity and coarseness.

I have "forfeited my right to be called a member of the fairer sex"

according to Lady Eastlake,

who speculates that Currer Bell might actually be a woman

and complicit in the revolutions throughout Europe.

"We do not hesitate to say that the tone of mind and thought

"which has overthrown authority and violated every code -

"human and divine - abroad,

"and fostered Chartism and rebellion at home,

"is the same which has also written Jane Eyre."

Jane Eyre.

-And why is it vulgar?

-It isn't, Papa!

People are just squeamish about the truth, about real life.

Our work is clever. It's truthful.

It's new, it's fresh, it's vivid and subtle and forthright.

But...more importantly, the point is...

..we didn't want Branwell to know.

That's first and foremost why we've kept it a secret.

It's not that he'd be scathing, we can stand that.

It's because it's what he always wanted to do.

And now it looks less and less likely that he ever will,

it'd be like rubbing salt into a wound.

No-one can ever know who we are. We've agreed.

We just didn't want you to worry that we weren't

doing anything with ourselves, because we have been. We are!

So, who else knows, besides me?

-No-one.

-I've not even told Ellen.

Tabby?

-No-one.

-The publishers don't even know who we are.

They think we're three men.

-We'd like to keep it that way.

-We just wanted you to know.

HE SIGHS

Little Helen Burns.

That's your little sister, Maria.

Maria was our big sister.

Yeah. Of course she was.

Of course she was.

Not a day passes when I don't think about her.

And little Elizabeth.

And your mother.

I am very proud of you.

I always have been.

CHURCH BELLS RING

"Sunday.

"Dear John, I shall feel very much obliged to you

"if can contrive to get me