Barbed Wire and Roses

by Peter Yeldham

  ‘What disdain?’

  ‘Don’t let it bother you, Charlotte. Keeping people waiting with long phone calls about bugger-all is probably not true disdain. Just fucking bad manners.’ He rose to leave. ‘Anyway, that’s it.’

  ‘What do you mean, that’s it?’

  ‘You asked what I’m doing. I told you what I’m doing. I’m going to write and produce this.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned the soldier. What about him?’

  ‘Australian. Stephen. Joined up as a boy, and is now twenty-four but looks forty after the horrors he’s seen.’

  ‘Much horror?’

  ‘War’s full of horror. If it’s real and not John Wayne crap.’

  ‘I suppose he’s heroic?’ Her tone suggested it would be de rigueur, and no doubt a cliché.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Patrick replied. ‘He is a hero, because he’s shit scared all the time and does his utmost not to show it. She’s the only one who can see it. She saves him from going crazy.’

  ‘How?

  ‘Lots of ways. Boosts his self-esteem. Fights with a Scottish doctor who tries to pronounce him fit and send him back to France.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m beginning to like the sound of it.’

  ‘I’ve already been honest. I don’t think we could get on.’

  ‘If it’s to be made in France, you’ll need a European partner.’

  ‘Who says I’ll make it in France?’

  ‘Isn’t it set there?’

  ‘So what? That was France, 1916. Today along the Somme it’s like a picture postcard: green fields, rebuilt towns. Trenches full of mud and shit can be filmed anywhere. Dead trees belong to the art department. Dugouts and blockhouses are best contained in a studio.’

  ‘What if I said I might be prepared to offer you a deal? Better than the one Tim was offering for your convict caper.’

  ‘Forget it. I won’t be messed around on this one, Charlotte.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll mess you around?’

  ‘Almost everything about you makes me think it.’

  She stared at him, taken aback by the bluntness. ‘Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’

  ‘I’m trying to be honest. From the moment you kept me waiting, waffling on with gossip while you assessed me and put me in my place, my antennae said you’re a pushy, ambitious lady. Well, fine. You pushed, and got to sit in that seat. But this story is special and my own project. I do it my way, or not at all. And certainly not with you, not unless it’s completely on my terms.’

  ‘You’re a bit pushy yourself, Patrick. And pretty bloody personal, too. I could tell you to piss off.’

  ‘Of course you could. I’ve already suggested it. In fact I’ll make it easy by pissing off now.’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ she said, ‘that you have to be a bit pushy these days, or you get shat on from a great height?’

  ‘I have been,’ Patrick replied, ‘often.’

  ‘So have I. Which is why I’m careful not to make any mistakes now I’m behind this desk. Because I intend to stay here. The way to do that is come up with something refreshing, which your story suggests it might be. So can we at least talk more about it?’

  ‘What’s there to talk about, Charlotte?’

  ‘Plenty. For a start, you could try calling me Lottie.’

  Patrick decided to walk back to Fulham after he left the BBC, this time in a far different mood to the last occasion. He wanted to digest the events of the day. It was almost dark and he tried to phone Claire, but like earlier attempts her mobile was switched off and the landline was on answer mode. He was impatient to tell her. What a great turn-up, he thought, what an irony! You wouldn’t bloody read about it in a bloody month of Sundays. He laughed, and a couple walking past gave him a curious glance.

  Out of sheer anger at the contemptuous treatment meted out, he had improvised a phantom screenplay. Until that moment he’d never contemplated using Stephen’s story as the basis for anything other than a report to his sister. It was a private matter. But he was determined to leave Charlotte’s office with some dignity intact, and as the words began to flow, so the images started to build in his mind. Taking the elements of truth and marrying them to fiction, it rapidly developed into the love story of a shell-shocked ‘deserter’ and a young English Rose.

  By the time he finished fashioning his outline, it had actually begun to excite him. And to excite her. Astonishingly, Charlotte Redmond — Lottie, as she kept reminding him to call her — was impressed. She put through a call to someone she referred to as ‘God’ or ‘Him Upstairs’, telling him she had managed to find a rather unique war story, and was he available to take a meeting on it? She had then buzzed her secretary and told her to cancel all other appointments.

  After which they went upstairs to see God.

  He was a small man in a large and lavish office. They crossed what felt like an acre of lush carpet to where he sat at his desk on a raised podium. His eyes were sharply alert as he studied them from his contrived height advantage. His face was deeply tanned, his head elliptical and smoothly bald. Charlotte, who seemed overawed with respect, introduced him as the Controller of Worldwide Productions, Ainsley Kegan-Potter. Mr Kegan-Potter was dressed in a lightweight wool suit that had surely come from an expensive tailor. It was ruined by a garish bow tie.

  He listened in careful silence while Charlotte explained how she had discovered Patrick and his screenplay, which was a love story set in World War I between an Australian deserter and an English nurse. Patrick also listened carefully. It began to seem during this recitation as if a great deal of the credit was entirely due to Charlotte’s brilliance and her flair for picking winners. Her ability to seize the day, and grasp the right story when it came along. But, as she said with coy modesty to the Controller, that was why they had given her the job.

  ‘Could be promising,’ the Controller said when she finished. He had a resoundingly deep voice for such a small man. ‘It has nuances of The English Patient meets Private Ryan, but it’s not a replica of either, which bodes well. Do we have a title?’

  ‘The Menin Gate,’ Charlotte said promptly.

  ‘No,’ Patrick corrected her, ‘Some Disputed Barricade.’

  ‘I like that.’ God had smiled for the first time, displaying a set of well-capped teeth. ‘“I have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade”,’ he quoted while Charlotte frowned at Patrick.

  ‘Exactly, Sir.’

  He found it odd calling people ‘Sir’, but did so because the name Ainsley was a bit of a mouthful, and Mr Kegan-Potter was a hurdle, his mouth could not handle, not without laughing. The Controller seemed pleased by the deference, and smiled again.

  ‘Well, let’s get down to the sharp end. Are we locked in? Do we have a deal memo?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Patrick was a split second ahead of Charlotte this time, quite determined she would not steer the meeting any longer. It was time to be heard. Clearly Charlotte had the same thoughts.

  ‘It’s downstairs ready for both our signatures,’ she declared briskly, the lie accompanied by her eyes widening with contrived candour, ‘now that you’ve given me the green light.’

  ‘Before any signing takes place,’ Patrick countered, ‘there are important details Ms Redmond and I have to sort out.’

  Charlotte began to seethe. The Controller seemed unperturbed.

  ‘That’s her department. Arguments over money, any minor details like that, Lottie’s the one you talk to.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to talk with her,’ Patrick told him, ‘but these are not minor details. There’s the matter of control. She knows I have certain strong ideas about creative control, and that I’ve also had other offers on this project.’

  For the first time, God seemed disconcerted. ‘Other offers? What offers? No one mentioned anything about others in the game. Is my time being wasted, Charlotte?’

  ‘Certainly not, Ainsley,’ she said, desperately trying to maintain a
smile, ‘Patrick is rather possessive about his story. But you can depend on me, we’ll reach agreement.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ He studied her carefully for a long moment, then turned his gaze on Patrick. ‘Don’t forget, this is the BBC, old son. You don’t turn us down lightly.’

  ‘Not lightly, Sir, I assure you.’

  ‘Not at all, if you want to be welcome here again.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘Good. People usually do.’

  ‘But in the long run,’ Patrick said, ‘I ought to make it clear — that entirely depends on whether I can work with Ms Redmond.’

  ‘Everyone can work with Lottie. She’s a pussy-cat.’

  Patrick walked along North End Road relishing the memory. He could hardly wait to tell Claire what had happened. Tell Claire, he realised. Not Joanna, who’d feel he took a reckless risk, and might point out he could easily have alienated the Controller. No, he’d tell Claire — who would think it an absolute hoot — how Ainsley Kegan-Potter became so adamant that the BBC should secure the rights and not lose out to a crass commercial enterprise. And how Charlotte — Patrick enjoyed thinking of her as Lottie the pussy-cat — was made aware he would not look kindly on the failure of negotiations.

  Back in her office the bargaining was brief. God wanted a deal signed and sealed that day; Lottie was eager his will should be done. So eager that she’d given him almost everything he’d asked for, which included a measure of creative control. There was only one remaining point of contention: since there was no script as yet, something on paper was required. A comprehensive treatment would be necessary.

  Patrick confessed that he hated writing treatments. He felt they took all the energy and surprise out of the screenplay. But on this point Lottie was inflexible.

  ‘I sympathise, Patrick,’ she said, ‘but I simply must have one. You know I can’t go ahead without it.’

  ‘When do you want it?’

  ‘Today.’ Patrick sighed. She smiled. ‘When I get it, then we sign the contract, and you’re on board.’

  He was found an office and given the choice of dictating to a stenographer or a recorder. Choosing the latter he found, despite his reluctance, that the story flowed almost of its own accord. From time to time the secretary appeared to change tapes for him; when typed, the pages were sent to Charlotte.

  Patrick, in sporting parlance, was suddenly ‘in the zone’. Unused to dictation he was surprised how readily scenes were outlined and new ideas kept occurring to strengthen the narrative. His mind raced with an eagerness he’d never known. Thoughts came with a rush; he had been virtually living it each day, and the way he told it had the fluency of truth and the passion he’d found in Stephen’s own words.

  The Rose in his pages took on the twin personas of Claire and Georgina Rickson. Bluey and others in the original platoon, as well as Elizabeth Marsden, Marie-Louise, Colonel Carmody, the Scottish doctor and the poets at Netley were there in detail, but always the focus of the story was Stephen. His impulsive marriage and rush to enlist, his gradual deterioration as the war took possession of his mind, his hurried iniquitous trial, and the battle over his fate that led to a decade of hard labour in prison.

  Not knowing the end of the real story, Patrick deliberately made his climax of the film ambiguous. He included a postscript stating there were two possible endings: one bitter and sad, the other an almost happy ending. His note said the conclusion would evolve from the writing, and the characters would in the end decide it — for this is what good characters did. When he handed over the last tape for typing, Patrick felt invigorated despite the hours he’d been working; it had developed with such congruity that he could hardly wait to begin writing the screenplay.

  Lottie had no concern with the bilateral endings. She thought it was a clever tease that would intrigue everyone, and a super way of leaving his options open. The whole treatment, she enthused, was absolutely super. In fact this was one of her favourite words, as he rapidly learnt. God would definitely find it super. What’s more, in her opinion Patrick himself was super, the way he’d worked at such a pace and come up with such a fine document. Absolutely super.

  Quite dishy in fact, she’d said, eyeing him.

  Patrick had given a quick glance at his watch.

  Lottie agreed it was late, the afternoon had fled by, and the building was starting to empty. Any time now her secretary would be going home, so they deserved a drink, she and Patrick. She wanted to apologise for the rocky start they’d had. She’d behaved badly, and now she’d like to behave badly again — but this time in a way he might enjoy. A couple of drinks for starters from the bar behind her big television screen.

  Patrick looked at his watch again, more obviously this time.

  There’s no rush, Lottie assured him. She was sure he’d noticed her office had a comfortable settee. It would be her first time on the settee. They could lock the door and cement their new relationship in the nicest possible way…

  ‘There’s a problem,’ Patrick said.

  ‘We’ve solved all the other problems,’ Lottie replied, ‘now it’s play time.’

  ‘Lottie, I’m truly flattered, but there’s someone else.’

  ‘Your rather famous wife?’ She dismissed this with a grin. ‘She’s twelve thousand miles away. That seems like a safe distance.’

  ‘There’s someone far closer than that, with whom I’m very much in love.’

  Lottie stared at him. For a moment Patrick thought that having voiced this truth at last, he had probably managed to shoot himself in the foot. Then she threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘You bastard!’ she said. ‘What a pity. I thought a shag would be the perfect way to get this show on the road.’

  It was dark when Patrick turned into Ashburton Road. Claire was waiting on the lighted balcony. She waved and called down to him.

  ‘I thought you’d got lost, or kidnapped.’

  ‘Nothing so simple. I had a meeting with God.’

  ‘Where did that happen?’

  ‘Top floor of the BBC. About as close to heaven as he can get.’ He ran upstairs and kissed her, eager to dazzle her with his triumph. ‘Big news, my love. I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I was out, all day,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some news too, darling.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Stephen — about what happened to him after the trial. I’ve found out.’

  TWENTY FIVE

  The idea had been growing in her mind for some time, she said, and today was the last chance to discover if what she’d been contemplating would work. She did not say how bleak it had felt in her flat, or how dejected she was after Patrick left for his appointment. His half-packed suitcase was a relentless reminder that he would be gone the next day. Whatever happened at the BBC, win or lose with his film project, they had decided this. He had to go home; continuing to delay it was becoming stressful, but having agreed, Claire feared the future. He had a whole life on the other side of the world, an existence that included a lovely wife and a close-knit family. How could all that be relinquished for a few transient weeks of love, no matter how intense? Surely when he arrived back home and had time to reflect… she tried not to think about it. It would be a relief to get out of the flat and the realisation of how empty it would feel tomorrow.

  She had taken the underground to Waterloo, then a train to Esher. There were no taxis when she arrived at the station, so she walked to the house. Outside was a sign, FOR SALE BY AUCTION, and the porch was littered with packing cases. When Claire rang the bell it was promptly answered. Helen West wore jeans, and her hair had been styled and cut. She looked years younger.

  ‘Mrs West. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Should I? If you’re here about the house, see the agent.’ She was about to shut the door, but Claire managed to forestall her.

  ‘Claire Thomas. I came to see you with Patrick Conway.’

  ‘Oh, yes… I remember now. His lady friend
, the one he called his assistant.’

  ‘May I talk to you?’ As the other hesitated, Claire added, ‘I’m here on his behalf.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why. I’m busy packing up, as you can see. What could you or he want to talk about with me?’

  ‘If you let me come in for a moment, I’ll tell you.’

  Helen West hesitated. Her eyes assessed Claire. She seemed both cautious and curious. In the end curiosity won.

  ‘Come in, then. Briefly,’ she added pointedly, and was at first dismissive when Claire asked where she was moving, but then could not resist the opportunity to air her new good fortune.

  ‘If you must know, I’m getting out of this dreary dump and away from dreary neighbours I can’t stand. I’m buying a brand-new villa at Chelsea Reach with a smashing view of the river.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Oh, it’s better than nice. I’m moving into it with a brand-new boyfriend.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Claire said, trying to establish some rapport, and knowing it was going to be unlikely.

  ‘Very good for me,’ Helen West replied with relish. ‘Marvellous the difference a few quid makes. My husband, the silly bugger, wanted to come back, to be reconciled, and I told him he’d blown it, dumping me for his bit of fluff. I said he’s old and past it.’ She smiled at the memory of this marital revenge. ‘When he started to beg, to plead he still loved me, I told him about Larry, who’s ten years younger than me, and got a dick like a policeman’s truncheon. I don’t know or care what your future is, Ms Thomas, but I’m all set to make up for about thirty lousy years.’

  ‘I’m sure Georgina would want you to enjoy every penny of what she left you, Mrs West.’

  There was a cold silence at this. Claire realised she had been mistaken about the woman looking younger. She was Patrick’s same old Mrs Bulldog, but with an expensive haircut and designer clothes.

  ‘What the hell business is that of yours? I’m her only relative, so I’m entitled to whatever’s mine. Now you tell me what brought you here, then clear out because I’m busy.’