SWIMMING LESSON by David Bishop

Short Film Script 3 pages

March 2011

Represented by: Katie Williams Blake Friedmann Literary Agency 122 Arlington Street London, NW1 7HP T: 020 7284 04 08 E: katie@blakefriedmann.co.uk

EXT. PUBLIC POOL - DAY The SWIMMER - ginger, with glasses, overweight, late 50s approaches the pool entrance, a rolled towel under one arm. He stops, stares up at the building. It looms over him, forbidding. The Swimmer hears the memory of children jeering, chanting. CHILDREN Fattie cant swim, throw him in! Fattie cant swim, throw him in! Sound of a boy falling into water, thrashing, spluttering. The Swimmers face clenches, wrought with tension. He hears the memory of jeering children, but the sound is muddy and indistinct, as if heard while underwater. The Swimmer turns and walks away, unable to cope. He stops after a few steps. No, he wont be beaten. The Swimmer turns back, marches towards the pool entrance. The door shuts behind him. INT. PUBLIC POOL. CHANGING AREA - DAY The door opens to admit the Swimmer, towel in hand. He finds a vacant locker and opens it. Theres a small mirror inside the locker door. A ginger boy in old fashioned swimming trunks is visible in the mirror, hugging his knees on a bench, shivering wet. The Swimmer reacts with surprise, twists round. But the bench is empty. No boy there. The Swimmer checks the mirror. Nothing. Frowning, the Swimmer undresses. Pudgy hands put his shoes into the locker, then his socks. Next is his tank top. Corduroy trousers. Striped shirt. Last but not least - his blue Jockey Y-fronts.

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INT. PUBLIC POOL - DAY The water - calm, clear and still. Not a ripple as Strausss The Blue Danube plays. Chubby fingers poke a blue foam plug into a left ear. Chubby fingers poke a blue foam plug into a right ear. Freckled hands adjust swimming goggles over closed eyes. A plastic and rubber nose clip clamps tight round nostrils. Two inflatable water wings, one on each upper arm. The Swimmer stands resplendent in his trunks. He nods: ready. The Swimmer climbs down into the pool. He pauses a moment as the water reaches his groin. Oh! Thats cold. Steeling himself, the Swimmer resumes his descent. Again, the water - calm, clear and still. The Swimmer glides by, the gentlest of breast strokes. Little ripples ease outwards from him. They lap at the sides of the pool. The Swimmer swims onwards, all alone. Peace, tranquility, and not a little bliss. But as The Blue Danube accelerates to its first crescendo, the feet of a CHILD appear pool-side. Then the feet of ANOTHER CHILD. And a THIRD CHILDs feet. And a FOURTH CHILD. And a FIFTH. Now a GANG OF KIDS stands by the pool, ready to jump in. Thin lips blow a shrill blast on a whistle: TWEEEEET! The CHILDREN hurls themselves at the pool.

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Their barbaric YAWP of noise drowns out The Blue Danube. Under the surface dive-bombing balls of humanity explode into the blue water, one after another after another. On the surface the pool is an anarchic mess of children fighting, splashing and thrashing around. The Swimmer keeps swimming, trying to ignore the tumult. But children jump all around him, blocking the way. The Swimmer stands in the water, frustrated. The children start laughing at him. Their laughter blends into an echo of past jeering: CHILDREN Fattie cant swim, throw him in! Fattie cant swim, throw him in! The Swimmer stands alone, ridiculous in his water wings. The children laughing at him. Pointing at him. Mocking him. Then a PIERCING WHISTLE cuts through the din. Everyone turns to look for the sounds source. A ginger boy stands pool side, hands on his hips. He gestures at the children in the pool to move aside. They follow his command, ducking under a line of floats. The Swimmer has part of the pool to himself again. He lifts his goggles to look at his saviour. The boy smiles, gives a thumbs up signal. Then he hurls himself into the pool. The children have fun playing. Across the floats, the Swimmer passes by. For the first time, hes smiling. Behind him, ripples drift across the water... FADE OUT.