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It’s dark.
We hear the last stanza of the hymn ‘As We Gather at Your Table’, sung by many voices at a village church service. It’s ephemeral, beautiful, a bit haunting.
Lights up on TOM, in corduroys, a nice shirt, glasses on a chain round his neck and a flowery pink-and-blue Cath Kidston apron that has seen better days. The hymn fades into Radio 4, from a transistor radio on the kitchen counter. He stirs a big Le Creuset pot on the Aga, then looks into an old and stained cookery book on the counter, finds he can’t see properly, fumbles for his glasses, and awkwardly puts them on.
He reads.
TOM. Ah. Shit.
He reads a bit more.
Where the fuck do I get bay leaves from?
He chuckles.
A bouquet garni? I am so sorry to disappoint… how remiss of me.
He leaves the kitchen through the front door, which opens directly onto a stone-flagged path surrounded by green. We can hear birds, and sunlight falls in through the open door. A few seconds later he returns triumphantly with some sprigs of rosemary and thyme in his fist. He leaves the door ajar.
Aha!
He crumbles the herbs between thumb and finger, smells them and has a moment over it.
That’ll do.
He uses a mortar and pestle to soften the herbs and release their aroma. He hums a little ditty. He puts the herbs into the pot, stirs, and tastes a bit off the wooden spoon. It’s perfect. The door opens, and ZOE is in. She is life itself, and launches herself at her dad.
ZOE. Dad!
TOM. Squirt!
They embrace.
ZOE. You okay?
TOM. Never been better. Good to see you.
ZOE. And you! Nice apron. Suits you.
He takes it off and hangs it on a hook. ZOE starts laying the table. MARIE enters with some daffodils she’s picked in the garden, puts them in a glass milk bottle, adds water f...
