Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

A single candle flickers on the bare timber floor, tossing long, jagged shadows onto the walls of the abandoned kitchen. Echoes of the house’s past life remain: a saucepan by the sink, a thin rope strung before the stove, heavy with abandoned laundry, a child’s wooden toy.

One soldier-an Australian infantryman called FRED-crouches by the hole in the wall where a door once stood. He hugs his shotgun to his side. In the distance, the sound of sporadic shell fire. Angry rain pelts the already muddy ground, filling ditches to overflowing. A rat appears and sniffs a large dark patch on the soldier’s uniform. It is blood, black and rotten with age.

Inside the kitchen, an officer sits on the floor, propped against a table leg. DAVID HARTFORD holds a letter: its flimsy, stained appearance suggests it has been read numerous times. Asleep beside his outstretched leg is the skinny dog that has followed them all day.

The third man, ROBBIE HUNTER, appears from one of the rooms. He carries a gramophone, blankets and a handful of dusty records. He places his load on the kitchen table and begins searching the cupboards. In the back of the pantry he finds something. He turns and we draw slowly closer. He is thinner than before. World-weariness has sobered his features. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the weather and the walking have tangled his hair. A cigarette hangs from between his lips.

DAVID (without turning)

Find anything?

ROBBIE

Bread-hard as a rock, but still bread.

DAVID

Anything else? Anything to drink?

ROBBIE (pausing)

Music. I found music.

DAVID turns, sees the gramophone. His expression is difficult to read: a combination of pleasure and sadness. Our view shifts, trailing from his face, down his arm to his hands. The fingers of one are wrapped in a dirty makeshift bandage.

DAVID

Well then… What are you waiting for?

ROBBIE sets a record on the gramophone and the crackly song begins to play.

MUSIC: Debussy’s Claire de Lune.

ROBBIE makes his way to DAVID, carrying the blankets and bread. He goes carefully, easing himself onto the floor: the trench collapse has left him with more injuries than he lets on. DAVID’S eyes are closed.

ROBBIE takes a pocket knife from his bag and begins the difficult task of breaking the stale bread into portions. The task achieved, he places one on the floor near DAVID. He throws another to FRED at the door. FRED tries hungrily to bite it.

ROBBIE, still smoking his cigarette, offers a portion of bread to the dog. The dog sniffs the bread, looks at Robbie, turns away. Robbie takes off his shoes, peels back wet socks. His feet are muddy and blistered.

There is a sudden eruption of gunfire. DAVID’S eyes flash open. We see, through the doorway, the fireworks of battle on the horizon. The noise is terrific. The ragged explosions a contrast to Debussy’s music.

Looking back into the farmhouse, we see the faces of the three men, eyes wide, reflections exploding across their cheeks.

Finally, the guns fall silent and the bright light dies. Their faces are in shadow again. The record ceases playing.

FRED (still watching the distant battle field)

Poor buggers.

DAVID

They’ll be crawling over no-man’s-land now. Those that are left. Collecting the bodies.

FRED (shuddering)

Makes a man feel guilty. Not being there to help. And glad.

ROBBIE stands, walks to the doorway.

ROBBIE

I’ll take over. You’re tired.

FRED

No more or less than you. Can’t think you’ve slept in days; not since he (indicating DAVID) pulled you out of that trench. Still don’t know how you got out of there ali-

ROBBIE (quickly)

I’m fine.

FRED (shrugging)

All yours, mate.

FRED moves and sits by DAVID on the floor. He arranges one of the blankets over his legs, still hugging his gun to his chest. DAVID pulls a deck of cards from his bag.

DAVID

Come on, Fred. Quick game before you turn in?

FRED

Never could say no to a game. Keeps a fellow’s mind off things.

DAVID hands the deck to FRED. Indicates his own bandaged hand.

DAVID

Deal us up then.

FRED

What about him?

DAVID

Robbie doesn’t play. Doesn’t want to land the ace of spades.

FRED

What’s he got against the ace of spades?

DAVID (plainly)

Death card.

FRED begins to laugh, the trauma of the past weeks manifesting as a sort of hysteria.

FRED

Superstitious bastard! What’s he got against death?

All the world’s dead. God’s dead. Only him below left now. And the three of us.

ROBBIE is sitting in the doorway, looking out toward the front. The dog has crept over to lie by him.

ROBBIE (to himself, quoting William Blake)

We’re of the Devil’s party without knowing it.

FRED (overhearing)

We know it all right! A fellow only need set foot on this Godforsaken land to know the Devil’s running the show.

As DAVID and FRED continue to play cards, ROBBIE lights another cigarette and pulls a small notebook and pen from his pocket. As he writes, we see his memories of battle.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

The world has gone mad. Horror has become ordinary. Men, women, children daily slaughtered. Left where they remain, or vaporised so that nothing remains. Not a hair, or a bone, or the button from a shirt… Civilisation is surely dead. For how can it now exist?

The sound of snoring. ROBBIE stops writing. The dog has moved his head onto ROBBIE’S leg and is fast asleep, eyelids quivering as he dreams.

We see ROBBIE’S face, lit by candle, as he watches the dog. Slowly, cautiously, ROBBIE extends a hand, lays it gently on the dog’s side. ROBBIE’S hand is trembling. He smiles faintly.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

And yet, amid the horror, the innocent still find solace in sleep.

EXT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE-MORNING

It is morning. Weak sunlight breaks through the clouds. The night’s rain clings in drops to the surrounding trees and the ground is thick with new mud. The birds have emerged from hiding and call to one another. The three SOLDIERS stand outside the farmhouse, kits on their backs.

DAVID holds a compass in the hand that is not bandaged. He looks up, points in the direction of the shellfire from the night before.

DAVID

Due east. Must be Passchendaele.

ROBBIE nods grimly. Squints toward the horizon.

ROBBIE

Then we head east.

They set off. The dog hurries after them.

OCTOBER 1917

Dear Lord Ashbury,

It is my dreadful duty to inform you of the sad news of the death of your son, David. I understand that in such circumstances words do little to temper your sorrow and grief, but as your son’s immediate superior officer, and as one who knew and admired him, I want to extend to you my sincere sympathy for your tremendous loss.

I thought, also, to inform you of the brave circumstances of your son’s death, in the hopes that it might bring you and your family some consolation to know that he lived and died like a gentleman and a soldier. On the night he was killed, he commanded a group of men on a particularly vital piece of reconnaissance to locate the enemy.

I have been informed by the men who accompanied your son that between three and four o’clock, on the morning of 12 October, as they were returning from their mission, they came under heavy fire. It was during this attack that they were shocked by the sudden taking away of Capt. David Hartford. He was killed instantly by gunfire, and our only consolation is that he suffered absolutely no pain.

He was buried at first light in the northern part of the village of Passchendaele, a name, Lord Ashbury, that will long be remembered in the glorious history of our British armies. It will gladden you to know that through the excellent leadership of your son on his final mission, we were able to complete a critical objective.