A Spot of Tea

“Spot o’ tea, Vicar?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Gilly said. “That is how you’re going to open our screenplay?”

Darnel Miller glared at his writing partner over his tablet; Gilford—Gilly—Simmons sprawled in the chair opposite Darnel’s desk, tapping his teeth with a pencil. “What’s wrong with it?” Darnel groused. “It immediately sets up the scene—England, probably the moors or some such moody location, fog or mists or what have you—and that it’s a mystery.”

“And I suppose the protagonist is the local priest.”

Darnel made a rude noise. “Oh, now, that would be trite, wouldn’t it?” He swept his gaze around the small office they shared between the deli and the bike shop on Morro Bay’s Main Street. Three and a half hours wasn’t that far a drive from LA, down the 101.

“Although,” Darnel said after a moment, “maybe he thinks he’s quite the sleuth, but, the real amateur detective is his niece, who also is the bartender at the Plough & Swan pub on the commons.”

“Where they serve tea?”

Darnel tossed a crumpled page of an earlier draft at Gilly. They’d been writing partners for twenty-some years, with modest success at writing producible film scripts since their first, Raider of the Templar Treasure. Darnel was the idea man, but Gilly had the wordsmithing gift.

“Seriously,” Gilly said, “you’re not expecting me to develop the character of some young but brilliant teenager with a knack for finding dead bodies, are you?”

Darnel pushed his rimless glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Hmm, a British Nancy Drew. A combination of sultry intrigue and teenage shenanigans with just a jot of cynicism.”

Gilly tapped his pencil on the arm of his chair. “And perhaps she’s part of an unlikely duo.”

Darnel hunched over his tablet. “The ghost of a dead lover?”

“Done to death, if you’ll pardon the pun. And isn’t our Nancy Drew too young to have a dead lover?”

“I set the scene; you develop the characters.”

“Brilliant,” Gilly said, rolling his eyes. He fished a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Where exactly in Great Britain?”

Out the front window, Darnel watched a chill wind scour the last stubborn leaves from the oak across the street. “I’ve always loved the Cotswalds in the Spring. Perhaps Upper Cheddar or Badgerwicket? Nothing more murder-y than a small English village.”

“Is there a Lower Cheddar?”

Darnel tossed another crumpled page.

“How about badgers in Badgerwicket?”

Darnel’s tablet pen missed Gilly’s head. “Just trying to help.” He stood. Gray clouds clotted the sky over the bay, threatening yet another storm. “A cup of tea sounds perfect right now. Can I get you one?”

“I’m fine with my morning scotch, thank you.”

Gilly warmed his hands above the teapot before pouring a cup of green tea. “What’s the plot? Poisoned kebabs? Purloined Oyster cards? The case of the missing crisps?”

“Twins abandoned on the church doorstep, found by Father Finn.”

Gilly leaned back against the table, blowing on his tea. “Do people even do that anymore? Abandon babies at a church?”

Darnel wiggled his eyebrows. “That would be the mystery, eh? Who are they? Why would someone abandon them?”

“Ah,” Gilly said, pointing at Darnel. “Perhaps they weren’t abandoned by their mother. They were stolen.”

“Good one. Orphanages are always losing babies. But when Victoria searches for the twin’s parents…”

“Victoria?”

Darnel exhaled. It might have been the sigh of the long-persecuted. “Father Mick’s niece.”

“Right. Wait. Father Mickey Finn?”

“When she investigates, no babies have been taken from the hospitals and the police have no record of burgled babies.”

Gilly dropped back into his chair. “So, Victoria expects foul play. Kidnapping? But if the babies are meant to be ransomed, why drop them off at a church?”

Darnel grinned. “Devilish, isn’t it?”

Gilly leaned forward. “Whose are they? Don’t tell me Father Finn had an affair. Are they Victoria’s?”

“Don’t be daft. She’s too busy as a spy.”

“She’s a spy? For MI6?”

“For Mossad.”

“I thought spying on your allies was frowned upon.”

Darnel sipped his scotch. “Everybody spies on everybody.”

Gilly sipped his tea and pondered. “But her uncle is a Catholic Priest.”

“No. He’s Church of England. And his sister is Jewish and an assassin for Mossad.”

“Did her mother recruit Victoria into Mossad?”

“No, Victoria approached the Mossad directly after her boyfriend, a US Secret Service agent was killed by Hezbollah.”

“Of course she did. Any suspects?”

“The Biegler brothers for one. Or two. And perhaps Victoria’s musician fiancé.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Gilly slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “What do you have so far?

Darnell scrolled his tablet to the first page of the script.

“FADE IN,” he said, beginning to read the script.

#

INTERIOR – SMALL CHURCH KITCHEN – CLOSEUP TEA POURING INTO A CUP.

NUN (VOICE-OVER)

Spot of tea, Vicar?

LIGHTING FLASHES, illuminating the teacup on the kitchen table and THUNDER ROLLS. The storm is wicked and very close.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR – NIGHT - LOW ANGLE, CHURCH OF ST. MARY MAGDALENE.

The rain falls like a Biblical deluge. Lighting flashes and THUNDER ROARS. The CAMERA TILTS DOWN from the bell tower, past the Victorian stained glass, to the iron-banded oak double doors of the church. A double-wide stroller stands beneath the portico.

FAINT SOUNDS OF CRYING.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR – NIGHT – ONE OF THE CHURCH DOORS CRACKS OPEN TO REVEAL FATHER FINN.

Finn wears his black double-breasted cassock. His face wears lines of care around his eyes, and his thinning hair is touched with gray. Candlelight from the rectory limns his outline. He looks at the stroller. Steps closer to it.

EXTERIOR – NIGHT - CLOSE-UP - THE TWINS

(Crying.)

EXTERIOR – NIGHT - ON FATHER FINN

Looks out at the torrent falling from the skies, then back down to the babies in the stroller.

FATHER FINN

Well, Hell’s Bells.

#

Gilly looked up from his teacup. “He really says that? Hell’s Bells?”

“I’m just setting the scene,” Darnel said, “to, you know, give you the flavor. You do the dialog.”

“Right,” Gilly said. “Note to self: cut the swearing.”

Darnel returned to reading the script.

#

CUT TO:

INTERIOR – CHAPEL

FATHER FINN ON HIS SMARTPHONE.

Lightning flashes through the stained glass.

FATHER FINN

Victoria. I’ve got a wee bit of a problem.

#

“Wee bit? He sounds more Scottish than Irish,” Gilly said.

Darnel waved a hand. “Whatever.” He swiped up to the next page

#

CUT TO:

INTERIOR - CHAPEL DOOR

It opens. Victoria slips in, backlit, disappearing into the shadows as the door THUMPS closed behind her.

#

Darnell set his tablet down. “The two Biegler brothers show up…”

“About time,” Gilly mumbled.

“…claiming,” Darnel continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “that they’d been sent to return the babies to their mother, but they’d really come to kill Victoria for having assasinated their mother.”

           “She killed their mother?” Gilly said, pausing mid-sip of his tea.

           “Coleen Biegler was with Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and was Victoria’s last target.”

“Is that important to the story, or is it a McGuffin?”

Darnel shrugged. “Maybe she only turned their mother over to Mossad for interrogation, but they don’t know that. Or the Biegler brothers are working for a double-agent in the House of Lords.”

“Damn generic of you.” Gilly stared at his cup of tea. It was almost empty. He vaguely recognized the pattern swirling in the tea leaves. “Are the twins the McGuffin? And why does Father Finn think he has a problem?”

“Babies on the doorstep are always a problem,“ Darnel said. He tapped his tablet. “I just sent you the rest of the outline. I’ll let you flesh it out.”

Gilly gulped the last of his tea and rose for another cup. “This is really good. What kind of tea is it?”

Darnel found his Glenfiddich in his desk drawer and poured a couple of fingers. “It’s a high-grade Sencha green tea from a single estate farm in Kyushu, blended with a 50/50 Green Haze tincture.”

Gilly watched the Bartlett pear-colored tea stream into his cup. “Beautiful.” He tilted his head. “Sentient tea?”

“Sencha. It’s young tea leaves steamed immediately after picking to stop oxidation, then rolled.”

“It’s very relaxing.” He watched his cup begin to overflow. “And so pretty.”

Darnell smiled. “That’s the tincture talking.”

“The teacher?”

“Tincture. Of cannabis. I find it helps with creativity.”

“Beautiful creativity.” Gilly carried his cup carefully back to his chair. “I am so ready to be creative.” He collapsed into his seat. “Maybe Father Finn is a double-agent. I’m just spitballing here, but what if it isn’t a mystery; what if it’s a thriller.”

Darnel nodded. “Robert Ludlum?”

“More Tom Clancy-ish.” He slumped further into his chair. “I was so sad when he died.” He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. “Is Father Mick down with technology?”

“Not much else to do as a priest in a small village,” Darnel said. “Always fiddling with the WiFi in the nave. “He raised his glass. “Maybe he’s like Patterson’s Alex Cross?”

“Or those Balderdash books. That weird FBI guy.”

Darnel thought a moment, lips to glass. “Pendergast. Right. Preston and Child. Sure, it could go that way.”

“We could create a whole Father Finnigan series. Did I mention how good this tea was? I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?”

“It’s Father Finn,” Darnel said, tossing Gilly a snack pack of chedder-flavored chips.

“Him, too.” Gilly swept a hand through the air. “What if they’re time travelers? Or immortal. Immortal time travelers!” He looked down. “Where’d my tea go?” He stood. “Do you want a cup? Hey, these chips are baked. Awesome. Yes, sir, Best Original Screenplay here I come. I can see the reviews already.”

#

HOLLYWOOD STRINGER – With thinly drawn characters and a paper-thin plot, Bloodbath in Badgerwicket may be the most dismal film of the year. By parts comically sad or tragically ludicrous, this miscast, misdirected, mistake of a film may be the first film to ever receive a negative rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Few films have said so little with so many words, if that even was what any of the actors were speaking.

NEW YORK TRIBUNE - One would be hard pressed to find an appropriate metaphor for how odious in the annals of film history is Bloodbath in Badgerwicket. In the running for The Plan 9 from Outer Space of detective films—unless it’s a misanthropic Rom-Com?—it certainly is the worst film to be committed to pixels since “They Saved Hitler’s Brain. BB in B combines every imaginable B-movie trope (see what I did there?), hopelessly dusted off and dressed in literary garments even the Salvation Army didn’t want.

CINCINNATI HERALD-TRIBUNE – On a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being truly bad and 1 being the worst movie of the year, we have to rate Bloodbath in Badgerwicket Negative 3.

FILM CULTURE MAGAZINE - Ishtar, Sex Lives of the Potato Men, Cats… and now Bloodbath in Badgerwicket.

ACADEMY OF MOVING PICTURES - Regarding your submission of Bloodbath in Badgerwicket for award consideration: No, no, no, no, no, a thousand times no! We mean it!

SCRIPT TO SCREEN PODCAST - interview of the screenwriters of Bloodbath in Badgerwicket.

TODD D: Gillford, what in the bloody hell were you two drinking?

Gilly: Tea. Just tea. I swear.