FAITH SHAKESPEARE stands in front of a mirror in her bedroom, dressed in black. Her reflection stares back – pale, eyes swollen from tears, and jaw clenched with a mix of grief and fury. Her fingers tighten around an old photograph of her late father, JAY SHAKESPEARE, once a factory foreman, now a town whisper.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(whispering to the photograph)
I hope they remember the good in you, Dad. Not just… not just the part they talked about behind your back. Or in front of it, even.
She places the photograph back on the dresser, next to a burnt candle and a dried wildflower bouquet—his last gift to her before his final fall. She takes a long breath, lifts her chin, and speaks with quiet resolve.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(to herself)
Come on, Faith. You can do this. For Jason. For Dad. For the truth.
A knock at the door. Familiar. Gentle.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(off-screen)
Faith? Mr Chesterfield brought food again. He says it's steak pie this time. Said Dad always liked it.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
I'll be down in a minute.
Cut to: Kitchen. Cosy, if a little outdated. A kettle hisses softly. The clock ticks louder than it should. JASON, shy of twenty, sits at the kitchen table in an oversized black suit. He watches the steam rise from a cup of untouched tea. FAITH enters and takes over pouring another.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
Here. Let me. I need to do something with my hands before I rip them to shreds.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
You don't have to babysit me, Faith.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
No, but I want to. Is that okay with you? Or shall I argue with someone else today?
Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, trying for levity. It falls flat. A quiet moment stretches between them.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
Do you think many will come? To the church, I mean.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
Some will. Some will stay on the pavement and watch from a safe distance like it's a bloody parade. Others will show up just to see who breaks first.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(bitterly)
They'll all be watching William Sugden. That snake loves the stage.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(snapping)
Don't say his name in this house. Not today.
Jason stiffens but nods. He understands.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(quietly)
He's going to try and hijack it. I know he is. Try and spin some tale about Dad owing him something. About debts or favours. Or throw in some sly remark so people remember the worst parts louder than the best.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
He's just a coward with a loud mouth.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
He's poison in a velvet coat. And if he dares speak over Dad's coffin, I swear to God I'll drag him out by his over-starched collar.
A silence falls like a stone between them.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
Dad wouldn't want a scene.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
Dad wouldn't want Sugden standing over him, pretending to be a friend. That man hated him. Hated everything we stood for. If he shows, I'll make sure people know the truth.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
And what is the truth, Faith? Because some days I don't even know myself anymore.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(sitting down, voice steady)
The truth is he was ours. He broke, yes. But we knew the parts of him no one else saw. The parts that held us together when everything else was crumbling.
A knock interrupts. FAITH opens the door to find PENELOPE GRANGE – a family friend, churchwarden, and a woman with the stiff spine of a Victorian ghost. Her cardigan is immaculately ironed, her lips pursed in disapproval.
PENELOPE GRANGE
Faith. Jason. I won't stay; I just came to confirm the readings for this afternoon and to offer condolences. Also… I heard William Sugden say a few words.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(flatly)
He won't. Not if he values his teeth.
PENELOPE GRANGE
I'm merely saying, Faith – it's a public service. We can't… control everything.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
Then I'll do it myself. I'll stand and speak first. I'll tell them the truth before Sugden spins some fantasy about him being Dad's bloody saviour. Jay Shakespeare wasn't perfect. But he was real. He was human. And that matters.
Penelope looks rattled, but beneath the discomfort, there's something else. Respect.
PENELOPE GRANGE
(quietly)
Then make sure they remember your version, not his. Speak with love. That's stronger than venom. Even Sugden's.
Penelope leaves. FAITH closes the door with a shaky breath. She turns to Jason.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
We do this together, yeah? We bury him as we knew him. Not as they whispered. Not as Sugden painted.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(nods)
Yeah. Together.
They clasp hands. Outside, the morning sun begins to pierce through the grey clouds. A slow, steady light spread across the town that once spat at their father's name. The clock ticks closer to two.
The Shakespeare living room is a still life of grief. The curtains are half-drawn, casting long shadows across framed photos of birthdays, holidays, and simpler days long gone. The only sound is the slow ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece, counting down the hours until the funeral.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE is kneeling by a box on the floor. It's one of several they've pulled from Jay's bedroom. Jason sits cross-legged on the sofa, half-watching her, half-lost in thought.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
You sure you want to go through that now?
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(grimly)
Better now than after the service when everything feels… final. Might be something in here we want to keep close. Something for the coffin.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
We already put in his old dog tags and Mum's locket. What more would he want?
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
I don't know. Maybe something smaller. Something us.
She opens the worn shoebox lid. Inside are old receipts, broken reading glasses, a bent photo of a younger Jay holding baby Jason, and a pocketknife with the initials "J.S." scratched into the handle.
She sifts carefully, lifting each item like it might crumble if touched too roughly.
Then she freezes.
At the bottom, nestled in the corner beneath a crumpled betting slip, is a small, rusted tin.
Bright red, with the faded label barely legible: "Trebor Extra Strong Mints."
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(staring)
Oh my God…
JASON SHAKESPEARE
What is it?
Faith picks it up with trembling fingers. The lid pops open with a faint metallic click, revealing three dusty white mints still inside.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
He never went anywhere without these.
(laughs breathlessly)
Used to say they were "cheaper than toothpaste and twice as effective."
(tears forming)
He'd rattle this stupid tin everywhere. Every car ride, every bloody school play. That click-click-click. Drove people mad.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(grinning faintly)
Remember when he dropped it in the pews during Grandma's funeral? Thought the vicar was going to combust on the spot.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(choking a laugh)
And he still ate one. Right in the middle of the Lord's Prayer.
Her grip on the tin tightens, and the breathless laugh collapses into a sharp sob. The kind that erupts when you've been trying too hard not to feel. She lowers herself slowly to sit on the floor, back against the armchair, clutching the tin to her chest.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
(voice breaking)
It's just mints, Jason. It's just mints…
Why does that hurt so much?
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(softly)
Because it's him. Every little bit of him. The smell of motor oil on his jacket, the scratch of his beard when he kissed your cheek, the way he'd whistle the theme from "Only Fools and Horses" when he was in a good mood. And the bloody mints.
Faith cries harder now, the kind of deep, wracking sobs that leave no room for speech. Jason moves to the floor beside her and wraps his arm around her shoulders. She doesn't resist. She just lets go.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
I miss him so much. I hated him some days. But I miss him. I miss the sound of him.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
I know.
(beat)
You want to put the tin in the coffin?
Faith shakes her head.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
No.
(quietly)
No… I want to keep it. Just for me.
She wipes her face on her sleeve and places the tin gently on the side table, next to the kettle and two empty mugs. Her eyes stay fixed on it like it might vanish.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
You think Mum's giving him a hard time up there?
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(snorts)
She's probably making him brush his teeth and throw away those "filthy breath-bombs."
They both smile through their tears.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
He really did try, didn't he?
JASON SHAKESPEARE
Every damn day.
A silence settles. Peaceful, this time.
Then, from upstairs, the old radio in Jay's room—accidentally left on—crackles to life with the familiar voice of the chior singing "Jerusalem."
Faith and Jason look at each other.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
Dad's song.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
He always said he'd have that played at his funeral… though he also said he wanted a bouncy castle.
FAITH SHAKESPEARE
We'll give him the song. Not the castle.
JASON SHAKESPEARE
(laughs)
Shame. He'd have liked to go out with a bounce.