A Script for A Fine Frost on the Sheet

**A FINE FROST ON THE SHEET**

**SCENE 1**

**INT. NORTH POINT CURLING CLUB - DAY**

SOUND of a low, ancient HUM

Dust motes dance in weak shafts of autumn light slanting from high, grimy windows. The rink is a cavernous, cold space. Peeling paint on the boards. The air is still.

ANDY (76), weathered and wiry, is alone on the ice. He’s in a deep, practiced crouch. His face is a mask of concentration.

He pushes off from the hack. The glide is smooth for a moment, but then his boot SKIDS, just a fraction.

The 42-pound granite stone he’s released veers, catches a nearly invisible patch of frost, and wobbles to a pathetic halt a full metre shy of the painted rings of the house.

Andy stops sweeping. The synthetic bristles of his broom SCRAPE a final, hollow sound on the ice. He straightens, slowly. A series of CRACKS echo from his spine like old timber splitting.

He blows out a breath. A white plume in the chilly silence.

<center>ANDY</center>

> (muttering to himself)

> Damn it all.

He leans on his broom, the effort of the shot settling into the familiar ache in his lower back. He glares at the ice, at that one treacherous spot.

The rhythmic HUM of the ancient refrigerator unit is the only other sound.

Andy shuffles over to the failed stone. He bends, grunting with the effort, and picks it up. The cold, smooth weight is familiar in his hands. He carries it back to the hack.

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the twinge in his knees. He sets himself. Adjusts his grip.

This time, he pushes off with purpose. The glide is clean. The release, perfect.

He follows the stone down the ice, sweeping with a ferocity that defies his age. His arms pump, shoulders burning. His face is locked in focus, tracking the stone’s precise path. It’s a dance of physics and will.

The stone slides, straight and true, past the troublesome hump. It crosses the hog line, then the tee line...

...and comes to rest perfectly in the centre of the house, just kissing the button. A bullseye.

A grunt of pure satisfaction escapes Andy’s lips.

<center>VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> Show-off!

Andy doesn't turn. He knows the voice. He leans on his broom, trying to look casual, his chest heaving.

CAROLE (70s), sharp, pragmatic, and wrapped in a sensible wool scarf, pushes herself off the doorframe at the entrance to the rink. She holds a clipboard like a shield.

<center>ANDY</center>

> (a little breathless)

> Just getting a feel for the ice, Bea.

Carole’s boots CRUNCH softly on the concrete surround as she approaches. The scent of strong coffee drifts from a thermos tucked under her arm.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> A feel? Or proving a point? Because the point right now, Andy, is that we’re losing. On several fronts.

Andy feigns nonchalance, but he knows that tone. The ‘trouble’ tone.

<center>ANDY</center>

> Oh?

<center>CAROLE</center>

> The hall furnace, for starters. Gerald says it’s making a noise like a dying moose. Maintenance says it’ll cost a small fortune for parts. A larger one for labour.

She stops a few feet away, her gaze unwavering.

<center>ANDY</center>

> That’s... not ideal.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> Not ideal? Andy, it’s October. If that furnace goes, the pipes freeze. The hall’s finished for the season. And if the hall’s finished, our meagre little youth programme is finished with it.

<center>ANDY</center>

> What about the grant?

Carole lets out a short, bitter laugh.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> Rejected. Again. ‘Lack of innovative programming.’ ‘Insufficient youth engagement.’ I swear those bureaucrats think every rural community is just waiting for a troupe of interpretive dancers to descend from the sky.

> (beat)

> We need to do something, Andy. Something... dramatic.

The door to the rink SCRAPES open again. GERALD (68), the youngest of the trio, lumbers in, carrying a battered thermos. His face, usually a map of mild annoyance, is etched with concern.

<center>GERALD</center>

> Bloody hell, Bea, you didn’t have to tell him like that.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> He needs to know the truth. No use sugar-coating it. This whole place, it’s on a knife-edge. We lose the hall, we lose the rink, what’s left? Just the lake and a hundred kilometres of trees.

Gerald grunts, uncorking his thermos. The sweet smell of black currant tea wafts out.

<center>GERALD</center>

> True enough. Still. Dramatic. What’s dramatic enough to fix a furnace? A bake sale won’t cut it. A curling marathon? Forty-eight hours straight?

<center>ANDY</center>

> We’d all be in traction. And who’d watch? Two spectators and a stray dog?

Gerald takes a long sip of tea. His eyes flicker around the rink—the ice, the dusty ceiling, the peeling paint. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face.

<center>GERALD</center>

> What if... we made it an event? You know. A real *show*.

Carole raises a thin, grey eyebrow.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> A show, Gerald? We’re curlers, not Cirque du Soleil.

<center>GERALD</center>

> No, not that kind of show. Something artistic. We've got ingenuity. Think of the ice. It’s a stage, right? And curling... it’s got grace. Precision. What if we combined it? Art and sport?

Andy looks from Gerald to Carole, a dry flicker of amusement in his eyes.

<center>ANDY</center>

> You mean like... a curling ballet?

Gerald’s face lights up. He snaps his fingers.

<center>GERALD</center>

> Exactly! Or synchronised sweeping! We could have costumes! Music! The kids would love it. Margaret, with her drawings. Samuel and his fiddle. Liam and his poetry. They just need a platform. A unique one. Something to make them feel like this place isn't just... fading.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> Gerald. The hall furnace. Not an avant-garde ice caper.

<center>GERALD</center>

> But it could fund the furnace! Think big! ‘The Grand Northern Jamboree on Ice’! We could get sponsors! It’s for the kids, Bea. Give them a reason to imagine.

Andy looks at his stone, sitting perfectly on the button. He looks out the high windows at the grey, fading world. He pictures Gerald in a sequined uniform.

A small smile touches Andy’s lips for the first time. The ache in his back lessens, just a fraction.

<center>ANDY</center>

> Costumes, you said?

Carole looks from Andy’s smiling face to Gerald’s hopeful one. She sighs, a long, defeated sound. She looks down at her clipboard as if it holds the answer to their madness. It doesn’t.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> You two are mad. Utterly, completely mad.

> (beat)

> But... if we’re going to do this... this *thing*... it has to be organised. Properly.

She’s already flipping to a clean page on her clipboard. Her practical mind snapping into action, finding order in the chaos.

<center>CAROLE</center>

> Meeting at my place. Tonight. Seven o’clock. Bring ideas. Sensible ones, if you can manage it.

She casts a withering glance at Gerald, who is already humming a jaunty, unrecognisable tune.

Andy walks over to his stone. The ice, for all its flaws, held true. For a moment, standing there, broom in hand, he feels a flicker of warmth push back against the cold.

FADE OUT.