{Drawing room.}

Dr. Hinge: {Plays the dead march.}

Dame Hilda: Evadne, dear, can't you play something a bit more cheerful?

Dr. Hinge: Very well, how about this? {Plays chopsticks.}

Dame Hilda: Evadne!

Dr. Hinge: What's the matter now?

Dame Hilda: I think I prefer the dead march to that.

Dr. Hinge: There really is no pleasing some people.

Dame Hilda: Not with a repertoire like yours, there isn't.

Dr. Hinge: Do you know what the French call that tune?

Dame Hilda: Rubbish, I imagine.

Dr. Hinge: They call it cotelette, cutlets.

Dame Hilda: Oh, well, one man's meat.

Dr. Hinge: And the Germans, call it the kotelett waltzer, the Cutlet Waltz.

Dame Hilda: Well, it's nice to know you learned something at the Royal College of Music. Now, either play something properly or do something else.

Dr. Hinge: I was all ready to spend this morning in the garden, you know.

Dame Hilda: Yes, I know you were. And I just hope you're not damaging the pedals of that piano by playing it in your gum boots.

Dr. Hinge: They’re so difficult to get on and off. Especially since someone pinched my cavalry boot jack. So I thought I'd keep them on, in the hope that the rain might clear up.

Dame Hilda: And supposing it doesn't, you won't do your feet any good at all living in those things. And if you intend sleeping in them, you can jolly well wash your own sheets. Or have you given up sheets and gone back to your horse blanket?

Dr. Hinge: At least I’m don’t sleep in bedding that’s smothered in roses. It’s a wonder you haven't got green fly. Ooh, I do wish I could get out into the garden.

Dame Hilda: Yes, I wish you could as well. Haven’t you got a book you could read?

Dr. Hinge: I don't feel like reading. If I can't get into the garden, I may as well sit here and exercise my fingers. {Plays piano loudly.}

Dame Hilda: Evadne, really. You mustn't give me sudden shocks like that. I nearly slopped coffee all over Barbara Cartland.

Dr. Hinge: Well, that would hardly signify a return to the dark ages.

Dame Hilda: If you want to exercise your fingers so badly, why don't you go and peel the potatoes for lunch? Or would you like me to sing something for you?

Dr. Hinge: Not very much.

Dame Hilda: Very well, what would you like then?

Dr. Hinge: Do we have to?

Dame Hilda: If you’re not going out into the garden we do, yes. I'll see if I can find something appropriate, shall I? In my rainy day song book.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, you certainly know how to make a rotten day seem worse.

Dame Hilda: Let me see now.  Ah, what a wet, wet day, no, that might make you violent. Stormy weather, which has a footnote, not to be sung while standing under a tree. Or how about if you want to have a row wait till the sun shines, because I'm not leaving home in the rain, would you like that one?

Dr. Hinge: No, I wouldn't.

Dame Hilda: Thought not. Well, ah, got it. The very one. On the sunny side of the street. You never know, dear, by the time we finish singing it. Old man sunshine may have put his hat on and popped out to see you.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, I do wish I could be permitted the occasional melancholy mood without you getting all silly and behaving like a holiday camp red coat.

Dame Hilda: Well, now, come along. Take your gum boot off the loud pedal and play.

Dr. Hinge: Mm, very well.

Dame Hilda: There, now that was nice, wasn't it? Feeling a bit more cheerful now, are you?

Dr. Hinge: Not really. Just look at that sky. There's no sign of a break in it.

Dame Hilda: Well, why don't you go back to bed, dear? You're beginning to sound like Noah. I'll give you a shout when the dove gets back, though knowing your luck we’ll never see it again.

Dr. Hinge: I mean, last night's weather forecast didn't say it was going to be like this. It just said there might be the odd shower.

Dame Hilda: Well, this is probably it.

Dr. Hinge: It’s been raining solidly for almost four hours.

Dame Hilda: Well, perhaps that's what's odd about it.

Dr. Hinge: And you just make it worse, with your incessant inane prattling.

Dame Hilda: It's no good taking it out on me. I don't make it rain, you know. If I had my way, it would never rain, then you could live out in the garden. You don't think I enjoy having you sitting about in your gum boots with a face like a yard of pump water, do you? You look about as happy as a stick insect on bonfire night.

Dr. Hinge: Well, you really would think they'd be able to be a little more accurate I their forecasting these days, wouldn't you? I mean, heaven alone knows they have enough scientific equipment, balloons, weather ships, weather stations, satellites even, and they still get it wrong.

Dame Hilda: Well, that's it, isn't it? It's all got a bit too complicated if you ask me. By the time they've evaluated all that information about what's coming, it's been and gone. Consequently, they're forever forecasting what we've already had, and anyone can be wise after the event.

Dr. Hinge: What are you talking about?

Dame Hilda: Weather forecasting. All you really need is a little weather house like mine on the windowsill, so simple, you see. Because if the little man in the raincoat with the brolly comes out, well, you know it's going to be wet. And if the little lady in the summer frock with the sunshade comes out, well, you know it's going to be dry.

Dr. Hinge: I see, and what's the little lady in the summer frock with the sunshade doing out now then?

Dame Hilda: Oh, she isn’t?

Dr. Hinge: Yes, she is.

Dame Hilda: That's Maud. I keep telling her not to dust it.

Dr. Hinge: It must be the only thing she does dust.

Dame Hilda: Still, nothing to worry about. I can soon readjust it. I just turn the chimney pot, see? And the little lady goes in again, and the man pops out.

Dr. Hinge: Very scientific. And your little lady's just shot out again.

Dame Hilda: Don't say there's something wrong with it, I’ve had for years. And the chimney won't turn any further, not in that direction anyway.

Dr. Hinge: Well, your little lady must be suffering from claustrophobia. Either that or your little man's become a recluse. Fat lot of good that thing is.

Dame Hilda: Well, it suits me. And let's face it, I'm not the one who's cooped up and moping because the weather isn't what she thought it was going to be. If you'd asked me last night what it was going to be like, I'd have looked at my little weather house and I'd have told you.

Dr. Hinge: Yes. And you'd have been wrong, wouldn't you? Because the little lady was out. You'd have said it was going to be dry.

Dame Hilda: Well, that's what the weather forecast said anyway, isn't it? So you wouldn't have lost anything. You know, that's my point exactly. They have all that equipment and they don't do any better than I do with my little weather house. And they haven't even got Maud to contend with.

Dr. Hinge: I wonder if it would be worthwhile setting up a weather station in the garden.

Dame Hilda: Is it something you could do in the rain?

Dr. Hinge: No. But if I had one, I'd be able to pop out now and tell you precisely how much rain had fallen.

Dame Hilda: That would be exciting, wouldn’t it? Anyway, you could do that by sticking a ruler in the bird bath.

Dr. Hinge: No, no, I mean? We could do things properly, scientifically. We would have wet and dry bulb thermometers, a soil temperature thermometer, a rain gauge, a barometer, and a wind vane. All in various strategic points in the garden.

Dame Hilda: Mmm. Well, I hope we'd be able to grow something over them.

Dr. Hinge: No, no, the point is, you see, that we would then be able to observe and record local weather patterns. And to make our own forecasts. We'd no longer have to rely on the whims and fancies of that incompetent shower at the meteorological office.

Dame Hilda: What you really need is a little boat out in the Atlantic.

Dr. Hinge: What?

Dame Hilda: Well, that's where the weather always is, isn't it? Out in the Atlantic.

Dr. Hinge: Not always no. It's fairly worldwide.

Dame Hilda: Yes, but I mean all weather is usually out in the Atlantic somewhere before it gets to us, that is. You see, what I mean is, we don't get a lot of Chinese weather in Stackton, do we?

Dr. Hinge: What you call Chinese weather. Showers of rice?

Dame Hilda: Evadne, I am being perfectly serious, it's all a question of knowing what's out in the Atlantic, isn't it?  So, the best way to tell the weather would be to get a little boat and sit out there and watch it going over. And, you see, you could phone me and tell me what you'd seen. And then I'd know what was coming.

Dr. Hinge: No, no, no,

Dame Hilda: Listen, say you gave me a buzz on a Monday night, I'd know what to expect on a Tuesday here, wouldn't I? Mind you, I mean you probably wouldn't get back in time to go out into the garden, but at least you wouldn't be under my feet.

Dr. Hinge: If I were you, I would stick to your little weather house, Hilda. Anything more scientifically advanced is patently beyond you.

Dame Hilda: I’ve told you about old Pepper, haven't I? He was our gardener when I was a girl, you know.

Dr. Hinge: Yes, you have. He sounds a frightful old bore.

Dame Hilda: He always swore by seaweed, you know.

Dr. Hinge: Just the sort who would.

Dame Hilda: He always had a piece of seaweed hanging in the shed, and if he was in a good mood, he used to lift me up so that I could touch it. Well, you remember the old song? I was quite tall.

Dr. Hinge: You must’ve been!

Dame Hilda: And the song was as soon as I touched my seaweed, I knew it was going to be wet. He used to sing that to me,

Dr. Hinge: I must say, old Pepper always seems to have run remarkably true to form.

Dame Hilda: I think it was him singing that song that first got me interested in music.

Dr. Hinge: Doesn't surprise me. And your taste hasn't changed much, has it?

 Dame Hilda: What happened to all that seaweed you brought back from Brighton last year?

Dr. Hinge: I put it on the garden as manure.

Dame Hilda: Oh, well, funny, when you did that you played right into the hands of the Met office. I've got a bit of seaweed somewhere, you know. Maud brought it back from Frinton for me.

Dr. Hinge: Really? I thought Frinton was far too posh to have seaweed?

Dame Hilda: Well, I suppose it's just like everywhere else, dear, not what it was.

Dr. Hinge: It can't be if it let Maud in. In its heyday, she wouldn't have got past the Beadle.

Dame Hilda: If I can find my seaweed, you can have it.

Dr. Hinge: Thank you.

{Door slams.}

Dame Hilda: Oh, sounds like Maud now. She'll probably know where my seaweed is.

Dr. Hinge: I can't think why she should. She doesn't know where anything is. Unless, of course, she remembers sweeping it under the carpet.

Maud: Good morning, Dame ‘ilda, Doctor.

Dr. Hinge: Morning, Maud.

Dame Hilda: Good morning, Maud, dear.

Maud: You'll be pleased to know, Dame ‘ilda, that at long last I've remembered to bring back that umbrella of yours I borrowed.

Dame Hilda: Well, to tell you the truth, Maud, it's been so long, I'd forgotten you still had it.

Maud: Well, in that case, if it's still raining when I comes to go ‘ome perhaps I can borrow it again.

Dr. Hinge: Why don’t you buy yourself an umbrella, Maud?

Maud: Because I don't need two, Doctor.

Dame Hilda: Evadne, we're not exactly short of umbrellas, dear. You've got your nice big green fishing one, the one you found on the river bank, when you were looking for wild water squirt to sprinkle on your rhubarb.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, yes.

Dame Hilda: And I've still got half a dozen left from that production of the Balkan princess in Accrington.

Dr. Hinge: I’ll never know why you all carried umbrellas in that.

Dame Hilda: Well, no, nor me, dear, but just be grateful that we did. Incidently Maud, have you, by any chance, seen my seaweed anywhere? You know the piece you brought me back from Frinton.

Maud: Now, I can remember us ‘aving a big discussion about that Dame ‘ilda.

Dr. Hinge: That sounds like a meeting of mighty minds.

Maud: We were trying to decide the best place to put it. You didn't want it ‘anging in the dining room, cos you reckoned it’d maybe make the salt damp.

Dr. Hinge: Such expertise on the hazards of hanging seaweed surely can't be common, Hilda.

Dame Hilda: One has to be practical, dear.

Maud: And we couldn't ‘ang it in the kitchen, of course. On account of the steam, upsetting its progenostications.

Dame Hilda: Is that what I said?

Maud: Thems yer very words, Dame ‘ilda, progenostications. O’ course we did think of the Doctor's room.

Dr. Hinge: I thought we’d get round to that.

Maud: But you ruled that out, because you thought she might eat it.

Dame Hilda: Now, Maud, if I said that, dear, I'm sure I told you not to repeat it to the Doctor's face.

Dr. Hinge: Why in heaven's name didn't you hang it in the garden shed? I would have thought that was the obvious place for it. After all, it's what old Pepper did.

Dame Hilda: That's true. Why didn't we, Maud?

Maud: Wot? an ‘ave ‘er, using it for garden manure like she does everything else?

Dame Hilda: Well, Evadne, you see the sort of reputation you've acquired. That's why people don't give you things, except their old potato peelings.

Dr. Hinge: I don't hear you complaining in the summer, when you're sitting there guzzling all the enormous strawberries I've grown.

Dame Hilda: Evadne, I never guzzle, dear. Not even accidentally. Now. I wonder, where did we put that seaweed in the end, then, Maud?

Maud: Do you know, Dame ‘ilda, I can’t for the life of me, remember? Did yer want it for any particular purpose? Or were it just for sentimental reasons?

Dame Hilda: No, no, I wanted to give it to the Doctor, dear.

Maud: Give it to the Doctor?

Dame Hilda: Well, well, not give it to her exactly, just lend it. You see, she's taking up weather forecasting, but she's got nothing to take it up with. And you know, left to her own devices, she's likely to ruin the garden.

Dr. Hinge: Well, I certainly don't see myself getting either amusement or enlightenment from the study of meteorology, if my equipment is to be limited to one piece of second hand seaweed.

Maud: My old grandma ‘ad a leech.

Dr. Hinge: Who was that then, your old grandpa?

Maud: No, it we're not, Doctor. She ‘ad a leech worm in a bottle o’ water as she used for a barometer. She ‘ad it sitting on the window sill in ‘er downstairs room. Well, ‘er upstairs room didn't ‘ave no window sill, well, didn't ‘ave no window. Mind it ‘ad ‘ad, but they bricked it up.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, avoiding the window tax, I suppose.

Maud: No, so she wouldn't ‘ave to clean it. Nor buy a bit o’ curtain to ‘ang over it. She were an idle old woman, my gran. And she didn't ’old with extravagance. That's why she didn't ‘ave a barometer. Just made do with a leech in a bottle.

Dame Hilda: I don't think I want to hear any more about this, dear, if you don't mind.

Dr. Hinge: How did it work?

Maud: No, Doctor. I'll not tell you if Dame Hilda don't want me to. I ‘ate seeing ‘er sitting there with ‘er fingers in ‘er ears. Don't look right somehow.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, I don't know. It's like one of the three wise monkeys.

Dame Hilda: What was that, Evadne?

Dr. Hinge: Yes, even with your fingers in your ears, you don't miss much, do you?

Maud: Well, I'll go and see if I can find yer bitta seaweed for yer Doctor. But my lips is sealed on the subject of leeches in bottles. See yer later.

Dr. Hinge: What a pity we can't extend her sealed lips to a wider range of subjects. Oh, I say, there's Mousey Butler marching towards us across the lawn.

Dame Hilda: What does he look like? Oh, you know, Evadne, you really do attract the strangest suitors.

Dr. Hinge: Don’t start that silly nonsense again, Hilda. It's very tiresome and most embarrassing.

Dame Hilda: All the men who courted me and they were legion, wore evening dress and carried flowers. Had they arrived in waterproofs and waders, bearing dead fish on a stick like your friend over there, they'd have got very short shrift from me.

Dr. Hinge: He's obviously been fishing and brought us some fish. I think it's very kind of him. Good morning, Mr. Butler. Come in this way, won't you?

Mousey: Good morning to you, Doctor. The rain appears to be abating at last. I fancy we might even be in for a fine afternoon, unless something untoward happens, like more rain. Good morning, Dame Hilda.

Dame Hilda: Good morning, Mr. Butler. Do come in, dear.

Mousey: Thank you so much. Perhaps I might trouble you for a sheet of newspaper upon which to stand. I have cleaned my boots, but I fear a modicum of mud may still be adhering. It is most persistent stuff.

Dame Hilda: Oh, you're most considerate, now, Evadne, put that copy of the Times down for Mr. Butler, won't you? I have finished the crossword.

Mousey: So you do the Times crossword as well, do you, Dame Hilda?

Dame Hilda: Well, not regularly, dear, just occasionally.

Dr. Hinge: And always a day late. When the answers are readily to hand.

Dame Hilda: Evadne, are you going to close that door, dear? Or are we all to be allowed to freeze to death?

Dr. Hinge: What do you think I've got the handle in my hand for?

Dame Hilda: With you, dear, one never knows. That's better. Now, Mr. Butler, would you like a bag for your fish, dear? I mean, you do look so uncomfortable standing there, holding them like that, rather like a trapper who's been caught unawares.

Mousey: Oh, no, I have a bag for them, Dame Hilda, but I wanted you to see them first.

Dame Hilda: How, very thoughtful.

Dr. Hinge: You'd better tell her what they are, Mr. Butler. The only species she instantly recognises is smoked salmon.

Mousey: Yes, of course. They're trout, Dame Hilda. Oh. You may recall that the last time I was here, you were rhapsodising over the culinary delights of freshly caught trout, cooked in the open air, and served with almonds tossed in melted butter.

Dame Hilda: Yes.

Mousey: A meal you once shared, I believe, with a scouting chum of yours.

Dr. Hinge: I thought all your chums wore evening dress and carried flowers, Hilda, and now we find one who wore short trousers and a woggle.

Dame Hilda: Don’t be so ridiculous. We weren't at a jamboree, he was in mufti. He just happened to be the chief scout, that's all. And he had a barbecue on his lawn, you know the sort of thing? Well, no, you probably don't. Anyway, they do look beautiful fish, Mr. Butler.

Mousey: Then I shall just pop them into this bag and leave them here on the window sill for you,  they’re for you and the Doctor.

Dame Hilda: Oh, that’s very, very sweet of you.

Dr. Hinge: That's most kind, Mr. Butler. Incidentally, do you know anything at all about leeches?

Dame Hilda: Oh, Evadne, must you?

Mousey: Not a great deal, I'm afraid. Though I reluctantly number a few among my friends.

Dr. Hinge: Oh, no, I meant the leech worm, Mr. Butler.

Mousey: You're referring, I presume, to the medicinal leech. Hirudo medicinalis. It is, I believe, on the verge of extinction, and only to be found these days in the lake district of the New forest. A fact incidentally, which is not referred to in either of the relevant tourist guides.

Dame Hilda: How that is short sighted of them, after all, I mean, that's just the sort of information that would draw coach loads of people like that.

Dr. Hinge: I wondered, Mr. Butler, if you had ever heard of leeches being used in weather forecasting.

Mousey: Oh, yes, indeed. It was quite common practice at one time. One kept the leech in a glass bottle, three quarters full of water. If the weather was to be serene and beautiful, he would lie motionless at the bottom, rolled up in a spiral form.

Dame Hilda: You managed to make him sound almost cuddly, Mr. Butler.

Mousey: If it was going to rain, he would climb to the top of his little lodging. And if high winds were on the way, the game little fellow would gallop through his limpet habitation with amazing swiftness, scarce resting, till the gusts arrived.

Dr. Hinge: How fascinating!

Mousey: It's all a question of barometric pressure, of course. The signs are all there. One has only to learn to read them correctly. I knew last night it was going to be wet today, for the moles were throwing up more soil than usual, and the snails were climbing the grass stalks.

Dame Hilda: And there you were, Evadne, sitting indoors, listening to the weather forecast.

Dr. Hinge: Well, at that point, I was unaware that the mole and the snail were more reliable.

Mousey: It is also a fact that when rain is coming, the pigeons return only slowly to their lofts.

Dame Hilda: Now, isn’t that silly of them. I mean, you’d think they'd be in a hurry to get indoors before it started, wouldn't you?

Maud: Dame ‘ilda, look. I found yer seaweed for yer,

Dame Hilda: Oh, there it is, it's nice to see it again. Now, there you are, Evadne, You can see how accurate that is, dear. It's dripping wet.

Dr. Hinge: But it shouldn't be. The sun's out now, and it's quite obviously going to be a beautiful afternoon.

Mousey: Well, that's curious, seaweed is usually fairly reliable.

Maud: Well, I think I can explain ‘ow it got wet.

Dame Hilda: How, dear?

Maud: Well, it were ‘anging in the corner cupboard in the box room.

Dame Hilda: Yes,

Maud: And the rain's bin pouring in through the ceiling.

Dr. Hinge: So much the meteorological accuracy of your seaweed.

Dame Hilda: Well, at least it's more use than your weather station would be.

Dr. Hinge: How'd you make that out?

Dame Hilda: I would have thought that was obvious. Would a weather station be able to tell us that the rain was pouring in through the ceiling in the box room? Well of course it wouldn't!

As soon as I touched my seaweed, I knew it was going to be wet.

Transcribed by Lorraine Taylor