Charity's Own Son

Log Line: In 1880s London, a young apprentice discovers that tax collection is a matter of life and death.

FADE IN

INT. PARLOR - NIGHT

We meet TOM, (10) dressed in worn ill-fitting Victorian-era clothing, as he warms his hands over the meager heat from an oil lamp. The wick's greasy light does not help to brighten the shadows of malnutrition in his cheeks nor hide the tracks of tears that run from determined eyes.

Except for a listing table on which the oil lamp is set, and a tattered carpet bag at Tom's feet, only shadows remain to mark where furnishings had once decorated the room.

Along one wall a staircase ascends into the dark where a WEAK CHOKING COUGH can be heard echoing down from above. At the sound of the COUGH Tom looks up from the lamp. Tears threaten to fall from his eyes, but determination returns with a wipe of his coat sleeve.

Then the HEAVY FOOTSTEPS of a drunken man sound on the floor above. Tom follows their tread across the ceiling and then down the steps revealing…

…MR. WILSON, (40) whose otherwise apish appearance contrasts sharply with the expensive suit in which he's dressed. In one hand he grips a bottle of wine, while his other has an equally tight hold on the railing as he sways and stumbles to the bottom step.

MR. WILSON: Lit the lamp, didja? The dark not fit for you, boy? Weak eyes like yer Mum's. Don't look so hard at yer elders! Respect! Respect is a one lesson yer mum never learned you!

Tom looks down as Mr. Wilson staggers toward the boy. Then setting his wine bottle down, Mr. Wilson pulls Tom closer.

MR. WILSON (CONT'D): Well, since yer burning money let's not waste it. Stand straight so's I can give you a once-over. Dressed clean. Good. And how grown you look in the shirt of me own back! Charity, that 'tis!

Mr. Wilson spits in his palm and begins to wipe the boy's cheeks. Tom tries to pull away but Mr. Wilson holds firm.

MR. WILSON (CONT’D): Hold still, boy! Can't be having yer face show that you cry. Crying shows you're weak! Mr. Heath's a judging man, he is. And we don't want to give cause to turn 'em away, do we?

Another CHOKING COUGH is heard from upstairs. The two look up until the CHOKING COUGH subsides. Then Mr. Wilson returns his gaze to Tom who quickly looks down.

Mr. Wilson follows the boy's gaze and spies the carpet bag.

MR. WILSON (CONT’D): Now I'm sure you packed what's yours and yours alone? I'm charity's own son, I am, but I knows a boy of advantage when I sees one. So's open it up.

Tom presents the bag to Mr. Wilson who rummages for a few moments then pauses and smiles. Tom freezes as he watches Mr. Wilson pull a folded set of undergarments from the bottom of the bag.

MR. WILSON (CONT’D): An extra pair of small clothes? Such a lucky boy! One's not good enough for a boy of your social standing, I'll wager. And they're all folded nice, tight 'n tidy, they are! Such a good clean boy. But, hello? Heavy, yes? Did you hide something? What would you hide in such a dirty place? Something you don't want me to see? Something that isn't yours?

TOM: Please!

MR. WILSON: Please, is it? Well, we'll see what pleases you.

Mr. Wilson unwraps the underwear and discovers a pewter picture frame. Beneath the cracked glass is a small portrait of a lovely young woman whose soft features speak to the fact she's TOM's MOTHER.

MR. WILSON (CONT'D): You'd steal a picture of your own mum out from under me? Do you know what money this frame would fetch on the row?

COUGHING once again erupts from upstairs and then subsides.

With a dramatic sigh, Mr. Wilson releases Tom and fumbles with the frame. He pulls the portrait out from behind the glass, and with more theatrics, he hands the picture to Tom.

MR. WILSON (CONT'D): Charity. Once more I'm called to charity, I am. That's my lot, it 'tis, bless me.

The SOUND OF THREE SHARP KNOCKS comes from...

INT. FRONT DOOR - NIGHT

...the front door that is set just off from the empty parlor. Mr. Wilson straightens his clothes and attempts to sober up as he moves to answer the door.

MR. WILSON: Charity. Now here comes charity for me. Stand straight, boy!

As the door swings open the wind and snow of winter's cold enter the room followed by the dark figure of a tall thin man who pushes past Mr. Wilson and strides directly up to Tom.

In the light of the lamp, we see that he is dressed in a heavy black hooded cloak obscuring his face in shadow. In one hand he carries a silver-tipped cane while his other holds a silver fob watch which he is intensely focused upon.

MR. WILSON (CONT'D): Mr. Heath, sir! Pleasure you could make it!! And on such a cold night!

With a snap, the man closes the watch, tucks it into a pocket, and slowly removes his hood revealing the clean-shaven head of MR. HEATH (60) whose sunken eyes inspect Tom with the same intensity he held for his watch.

Tom looks down at the floor under the weight of that stare.

MR. WILSON (CONT'D): Ah, yes, as I says, welcome, Mr. Heath.

Mr. Heath doesn’t remove his stare from Tom.

MR. HEATH: Morning.

MR. WILSON: Excuse me?

MR. HEATH: Morning, Mr. Wilson. The time stands at half past midnight.

MR. WILSON: And so it must be! And so it is! As you say, sir! Yes, as you say.

MR. HEATH: Not, as I say, Mr. Wilson. Time is absolute. This is the boy.

MR. WILSON: And an excellent boy he is! Doesn't eat more than his full. Doesn't sleep more than his need. Keeps himself quiet and clean. Tom will make a fine apprentice, he will!

MR. HEATH: He is young. You claimed he was twelve years in age.

MR. WILSON: Well sir, I believe the boy is twelve. Of course, I don't know his exact age. He came with the house when I married his mother if you take my meaning. But I’ve looked after him as if he was mine own flesh, I have! Pure charity, I am. Keeping him fed, and dressed, while poor young Polly Anne, his mum, bless her heart, wastes away in her bed. A beauty she was, till the cough got to her. But I've been doing my best with her and the lad, I have, for better or for worse, as they say. But as we discussed, her medicine costs more than a reasonable family man can afford in these times of tight despair, and it would be a weight lifted, no, a blessing granted, if you could see to taking the boy into yer care.

MR. HEATH: What is your age?

Tom looks to Mr. Wilson who nods encouragingly back.

TOM: Twel–

Tom looks up at Mr. Heath and is caught short under that gaze.

TOM (CONT’D): –ten, sir.

MR. WILSON: But a strong, smart, and valuable ten!

MR. HEATH: Perhaps. I expect he can count.

MR. WILSON: Yes, sir! As high as you like! His mum was very strict on that accord!

MR. HEATH: And is he literate?

MR. WILSON: Excuse me, sir?

MR. HEATH: He can read?

MR. WILSON: Oh, well, I’ll say he does. Some nights he reads the Good Book to his mother, poor women, he’s a bright boy with letters he is.

MR. HEATH: And I trust, she taught him to read a clock as well?

MR. WILSON: Of course...

MR. HEATH: Numbers, letters, and time are three keys if he is to learn of my trade.

TOM: And what trade will I be learning, Master Heath?

MR. WILSON: Respect! Speak when spoke too, boy!

Mr. Wilson raises his hand to strike Tom, but Mr. Heath whips his cain up and out blocking the blow before it can descend.

MR. HEATH: You have a question, Tom?

TOM: What...sir, what trade will I be learning, sir?

MR. HEATH: Tax collection.

EXT. LONDON ALLEYWAYS AND BACK LOTS - EARLY MORNING

Tom tries to keep up with Mr. Heath's long strides as the two walk the busy gas-lit streets, alleyways, and back lots of London's Chapel Hill district. In his haste, Tom realizes that he still carries his mother's portrait in his hand and that he has crumpled it. Slowing, Tom tries to flatten it out and is about to put it in his breast pocket when he sees that he's lost sight of Mr. Heath.

TOM: Master Heath, Sir! Master Heath!

Spinning in place Tom tries to see which way Mr. Heath might have gone, but there is no sign. Tom races ahead into an ally that grows darker and darker until...

EXT. BUSY LONDON STREETS - EARLY MORNING

...one of London's main thoroughfares. Tom’s feet catch on some black ice just as a handsome cab bares down on him. At the last moment, a hand finds Tom's collar pulling him into...

EXT. DARK EMPTY ALLEYWAY- EARLY MORNING

...the safety of another empty alleyway across the street. Shocked, Tom looks at up to discover Mr. Heath glaring down at him. Mr. Heath then grips Tom's arm and twists the boy's hand, lifting him up and exposing the portrait to his inspection. After a long moment, something softens in Mr. Heath's gaze as he studied the picture. Then regaining his composure, Mr. Heath releases Tom's arm, then snaps open his fob watch, and shows it to Tom.

MR. HEATH: Read the time, and tell me what it says.

Tom reads the watch face carefully.

TOM: It’s Twelve... it’s Twelve fifty-four.

MR. HEATH: Tell me the exact time, then tell me what it says!

Tom flinches and then looks back at the ticking arms.

TOM: It's’ Twelve fifty fi-- it’s twelve fifty-four and forty-five seconds.

MR. HEATH: Yes... and?

TOM: Now it’s forty-six- seven seconds? Forty-eight?

Mr. Heath snaps the watch closed in Tom’s face.

MR. HEATH: Time strides with an even pace and by a strict measure. It will not wait for your pleasure, nor hurry to meet your impatient need. Time can only be spent, saved, and wasted! Now, you've read the time! So tell me what it says

Tom looks up and meets Mr. Heath's glare with his own dark determined eyes.

TOM: It says, sir. It says I am wasting time.

Mr. Heath smiles.

MR. HEATH: A strong, smart, and valuable ten you are! Mr. Heath tucks his watch into his cloak and moves off down the alley. Tom follows.

EXT. MR. HEATH’S OFFICES - EARLY MORNING

Mr. Heath and Tom arrive at a dingy building with dark frost-caked windows and a black little door set one awkward step up from the curb. With squeaks and scrapes, Mr. Heah pushes the stubborn door inward. Tom follows after entering...

INT. FRONT OFFICE - EARLY MORNING

...a small cramped office space, containing furnishings for both work and living including a desk, a freshly made cot, a small black oven with a coal bucket, and a table and chair set with a porcelain bowl and water picture. However, what dominates the tight space is a huge ancient bookcase whose shelves sag with the sheer weight of hundreds of bank ledger books. Also, room's back wall has an empty door frame exposing a back office to view. Within can be seen a much larger desk with one huge ledger set upon it.

MR. HEATH: This room alone is yours. Do not enter the rear office unless asked. I will return at dawn. Be awake and ready for instruction.

Mr. Heath exits. Tom manages to close the stubborn door after him. Then he sits on the cot. After a few moments, he pulls his mother's picture out of his front pocket, tries to flatten it out once more, then stops. Holding the small wrinkled paper in both hands, Tom begins to cry.

INT. FRONT OFFICE - DAWN

Tom wakes with a start to discover's Mr. Heath glaring down at him from the foot of the cot.

MR. HEATH: It is exactly thirty seconds after the sun has risen! What instructions did I impart with you not more than five hours previous?

TOM: To- to be awake and ready for instruction, sir.

MR. HEATH: And at what time?

TOM: At dawn, sir.

MR. HEATH: As you are new, you are graced with a time of bounty. A time in which you can fail and learn, or fail to learn! A time I do not expect you to waste, but in fact is a time that you have already wasted exactly fifty-five seconds of. And counting!

Tom scrambles out of the cot, brushing his hair with his hands, and fixing his clothes.

MR. HEATH (CONT'D): Be at it then! Make your bed! Light the stove! Give us some heat, boy, and wash up! I expect clients to arrive in moments. Moments!

Mr. Heath stands over Tom, watching the boy at work. Only when Tom kneels and begins to shovel coal into the little oven does Mr. Heath nod in satisfaction.

MR. HEATH (CONT'D)

I have acquired bread and cheese. It is there, wasting on your desk. Eat it when you are done. I will not have you starving under my care, but be quick about it.

As Tom works the flint, he watches Mr. Heath enter his office, sit at his desk and open his ledger book to work. Tom looks back to the stove and works a small fire into life. Warming his hands, Tom pauses when he hears Mr. Heath begin to hum a STRANGE SAD SONG whose melody sounds like a sea shanty but with the darker undertones of a funeral dirge.

The song abruptly ends and Tom looks up to find Mr. Heath glaring at him from behind the desk.

MR. HEATH (CONT’D): Did I not just not impart upon you the matter of wasted time! Up! Up, boy! Be at It!

Tom leaps to his chores, washing up and cleaning his space. He dumps the dirty water into a chamber pot fetched from under his cote, and opening the front door, Tom lifts the pot and tosses its contents into the street, only to look up to see…

EXT. MR. HEATH’S OFFICE - MORNING

...MR. SELBY,(30) a well-dressed gentleman scowling down at the mess that has been splashed upon his shoes.

TOM: Oh, begging your pardon, sir! Begging your pardon!

Drawing a handkerchief Tom quickly kneels and begins to spit-polish Mr. Selby’s shoes.

MR. SELBY: Disgraceful! Disgraceful!

The man lifts a hand to strike Tom but a sliver-tipped cane lashes out and blocks the blow.

MR. HEATH: This is my new apprentice, Mr. Selby. Tom, stand. I did not acquire you as a shoe shine. Now finish your breakfast while Mr. Selby and I attend to business.

TOM: Yes sir, begging your pardon, sir.

MR. HEATH: And that will be enough of that. A tax collector never begs. Does he, Mr. Selby?

Mr. Selby gives Tom one final look-over then follows Mr. Heath into the back office.

MR. SELBY: Quite.

Tom quickly sits at his desk. As he reaches for the bread he sees that his mother's portrait has been set upon his desk in a new silver frame. Tom picks up the frame and looks at it in wonder. Then he places it carefully back in place and beings to eat breakfast while studying the new frame.

INT. BACK OFFICE - DAY

Mr. Heath sits at his desk and begins to work, seeming to take no interest in his visitor, while Mr. Selby stands, hat in hand before the desk. After a long moment, Mr. Selby coughs politely to gain Mr. Heath's attention.

MR. HEATH; You wished to speak. Do so.

MR. SELBY: It's a matter of my wife's account.

MR. HEATH: What is its matter?

MR. SELBY: Well, she hasn't been improving these past weeks, but she's a fair young woman, strong she is, or would be, and young, as I said, shy of twenty years. A bride to me still. But her ailment, sir. Her ailment is weakening her, so, and what with the winter cold, she hasn't mended as her doctor expected. But if given time, Mr. Heath, time! I'm sure her account would be in proper order, but as it stands now–

MR. HEATH: Tom!

INT. FRONT OFFICE - DAY

Mouth full of bread Tom jumps at the call and runs to the back office door.

TOM: Yemff...

Tom's mouth is too full to speak and he begins to chew and swallow quickly.

MR. HEATH: We wait upon your pleasure, Tom.

TOM: Yes, sir, Master Heath, sir.

MR. HEATH: Please fetch Mrs. Jessica Bell Selby's ledger.

TOM: Where can I find it, sir?

MR. HEATH: In the shelves, boy. Follow your nose to the letter S, then on to E, then to L, and so forth until you have it in your hands. Be at it.

Tom runs to the immense bookshelf and begins to trace the spines of the books, reading the names in alphabetical order.

TOM (to himself): A’s to C’s, so down.. L’s, and S’s

Tom pulls a ledger book labeled Selby - Jessica - Bell- Mrs. Scrambling to his feet he darts into…

INT. BACK OFFICE - MORNING

...the back office and up to Mr. Heath's desk. Mr Heath snaps the book from Tom's hand. Mr. Heath opens the book and begins to slowly turn the pages.

Mr. Selby watches nervously from across the desk as Mr. Heath begins to flick the pages quicker and quicker until he comes to the very end of the ledger where he pauses and looks intently at one of the last pages.

MR. HEATH: As your wife’s accounts stand, Mr. Shelby...

Mr. Heath's voice trails off as he looks closer at the book and begins to hum the STRANGE SAD SONG. Mr. Selby is in visible distress.

MR. SELBY: She’s not twenty years, sir! Please!

MR. HEATH: Her age is none of my concern. As the account clearly shows she is reaching the end of her allotted expense, which leads me to discover that, ah yes, it appears today is her tax day.

MR. SELBY: The cold, Mr. Heath. There is no deduction in the accounting for the cold, sir. None! She'd be strong, Mr. Heath, strong, but for the cold!

MR. HEATH: And as you say, Mr. Selby, there are no deductions due to cold, so there is nothing to be done concerning her account.

Losing all composure Mr. Selby drops to his knees.

MR. SELBY: No, please, I beg you.

MR. HEATH: You see, young Tom? It is not the tax collector who begs. Now, Mr. Selby, I'll be seeing you and your fair young wife later this evening at exactly eight twenty-three in the evening, for collection. Tom, help Mr. Selby to the door, please.

Tom steps cautiously around the desk and goes to give Mr. Selby a hand to his feet, but Mr. Selby shrugs the boy off and stalks out of the room with Tom chasing after him.

INT. FRONT OFFICE - MORNING

Mr. Selby is having difficulty with the door and must step aside to allow Tom to open it for him. Mr. Selby steps to the door then turns and bends to fill Tom's view with his own fearful face.

MR. SELBY: The devil in the flesh, he is. Pray for your own soul, you little filth.

Then Mr. Selby is gone through the door and into the bright winter chill. Tom stands stunned for a moment.

MR. HEATH: Tom. Shut the door, and step in here.

Tom forces the door shut and returns to...

INT. MR. HEATH’S BACK OFFICE - DAY

... Mr. Heath's side. Mr. Heath closes Mrs. Shelby's ledger and hands it to Tom.

MR. HEATH: We are tax collectors, Tom. We do not grant wishes, nor distribute loans. Once our clients accounts are due, we collect. Winter comes each year and should be expected. There is no account for the cold. He knows that, and to expect more is the wish of a fool. Return this book to its place. Be at it.

Tom exits the back office and into...

INT. FRONT OFFICE - DAY

...the front office where Tom places the ledger back into its place on the bookshelf, while from the back office comes the sound of Mr. Heath singing the STRANGE SAD SONG.

Tom looks at the bookcase and once more begins to finger through the names.

TOM: T’s U’s... W.

Tom finally reaches Wilson, where he discovers Wilson - Chester - Mr. and Wilson - Polly - Anne - Mrs.

Tom's hand shakes as he draws Mrs. Polly Anne (Cooper) Wilson's ledger from the stack. He flips the pages and finds dates with numbers listed. He flips the pages and watches the numbers grow smaller and smaller until he reaches one of the last remaining pages and sees only a few remaining entries to be filled until the word TAX DAY appears in the final collum. Tom has not noticed that STRANGE SAD SONG has ceased being sung.

MR. HEATH: Hand me that.

Startled, Tom almost drops the book, but recovers and quietly hands it over. Mr. Heath looks over the book.

MR. HEATH (CONT’D): Your Mother's account? And... I see she is nearly due. Yes, her tax day is fast approaching. The evening after tomorrow at eleven-sixteen to be exact. I did not instruct you to pull this ledger from its place in the stacks, but curiosity is to be expected in your time of bounty. So, what will it be, Tom? Fail and learn or fail to learn?

TOM: Learn, sir.

MR. HEATH: And so, what have you learned?

TOM: We are not in the trade of tax collection, sir.

MR. HEATH: And what trade would I be in, if this lesson were true?

TOM: Death.

MR. HEATH: If such were the case, what should be done with this account?

TOM: We do not beg, give grant wishes, nor distribute loans, sir.

MR. HEATH: No, we do not.

TOM: But sir. Is there no account for charity?

Mr. Heath smiles.

MR. HEATH: Yes, son. There is a deduction granted for the distribution of charitable acts. But from whose account should I draw the donated funds?

Tom pulls another book from the stack.

TOM: Wilson, Chester, Mr.

Smiling Mr. Heath takes the book and flips the pages.

MR. HEATH: Your Step Father's account? So, charity. Once more I see Mr. Wilson is called to charity. That's his lot, it tis. Bless him.

TOM: Yes, sir. He's charity's own son. Said so himself. Bless him.

Mr. Heath takes both ledgers and exits into the back office, while Tom moves to his desk, picks up his mother's gold-framed portrait, and joins Mr. Heath in humming the STRANGE SAD SONG.

FADE TO BLACK