Stars Don't Cry (The Silver Bridle Book 2)

by Caroline Akrill

  I was in no hurry to make my way back to the stable yard where Angel might, or might not, be waiting to give me my first lesson. Yet there seemed no point in unpacking my holdall, because there was no wardrobe, no chest of drawers, and no room on the clothes-racks for anything of mine.

  I changed my pink cotton overalls for jeans, a jersey and rubber riding boots. Along the landing in an antiquated bathroom where one wall was completely taken up by an ornate gilt-framed mirror, its glass patterned with ugly, bruise-like marks, and where the windowsill was heaped with dead bluebottles, I washed hastily in tepid water coaxed from a brass tap afflicted with Verdigris, and tidied and plaited my hair.

  I closed the door on the hideous little bathroom and made my way down the staircase. Cinderella’s dusty pumpkin coach hardly looked substantial enough to carry a flesh and blood princess. Close inspection revealed that it was not expected to because there was no floor in it. Cinderella had to walk. This was typical of the theatrical profession, but also rather depressing. The coach that looked a wow from the stalls was revealed as a sham when one drew near, in the same way that a treasure chest containing pieces of eight that glittered in the spotlights would be revealed as bottle tops that tore the actor’s fingers.

  Not that I was unaware that the whole art of acting was based upon pretence; on the peddling of illusions and the faking of emotions, however sincerely and honestly performed.

  Ziggy had not failed to remind me how it was many times. “You’re in the business of deception now, Kiddo, and don’t you forget it. You got to make the punters identify with people who don’t exist, you got to make them believe things that aren’t true, you got to make them see things that aren’t there, and if you don’t feel up to it, Grace Darling, if you got any doubts, then you better go find a typing school instead, because there’s no way you’re gonna get out from the wings.”

  Well, I was almost out from the wings, but not because I had managed to deceive anyone about my prowess on horseback at the location film test. I had not managed to fool anyone for long…

  Standing beside the pumpkin coach in which Cinderella must walk to the Ball, I reminded myself that in just over four weeks’ time I would be playing the female lead in a Tom Silver television serial, a part which would make me instantly recognizable to at least half of the population of the country; a part which would set me on the road to stardom. Such knowledge was as heartening as it was unbelievable. Such knowledge would help me through the next four weeks in this unnervingly eccentric place. Such knowledge would jolly well have to.

  I pushed open one of the massive, weathered doors and stepped out into the sunshine, breathing in the fragrant, heady air of the countryside, looking across what had once been a garden but was now a wilderness in which even the roses had reverted to their natural state, to the dark, deep woods beyond. Naturally, gardening would not be a priority at Moat Farm. In my imagination I heard Angel say, “If I found you a spade, I don’t suppose – in your spare time…?”

  In a resigned, but slightly more optimistic frame of mind I walked back towards the yard along the narrow path between the towering nettles, wondering what Angel would be like as a riding instructress.

  But Angel was no longer in the tack room. Neither was she to be found in the barn. Nor was she in any of the loose boxes I peered into, although many of the equine occupants hurried to their doors at my approach, some to greet me in a friendly manner, some to threaten by laying back their ears and making menacing faces.

  It was in the last stable of all that I found someone. It was not Angel. But it was someone I knew. Someone I recognized.

  In the act of flinging a rug over the very same black horse I had ridden at the location test, turning to the door at the sound of my footsteps, watching without surprise but with unmistakable satisfaction as the expression on my face changed from stark incredulity to horrified stupefaction, was the handler.

  “Well,” Anthony said in a malevolent voice, “if it isn’t our empty-headed little actress friend, Grace Darling.”

  Through the open doorway, over the straw bedding which separated us, I stared at him, mesmerized as a rabbit caught in the headlamps of a car. “You?” I said weakly. “Oh no, not you… it can’t be.”

  “But why not?” The thin, well-shaped lips were smiling, but the eyes were as hostile as ever. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”

  I made no reply. Had I given the matter any consideration at all I might have guessed, but I had not given it a moment’s thought. I had been far too occupied with the unpromising nature of my reception and with the hideousness of the farmhouse to wonder who ‘we’ comprised; to ponder the identity of Anthony, of whom Angel had said in her browbeaten way “…you know what he’s like; you can’t tell him anything.” Now I gazed at him mutely; rendered entirely speechless by the twist of fate that had delivered me into his stable yard; astounded that he, of all people, should turn out to be Anthony.

  “Of course, I can give you several reasons why it should be me,” Anthony said, leaning back against the black horse’s shoulder in a deliberately casual manner, hooking his thumbs through the belt-loops of his breeches. “First, because I happen to specialize in teaching actors and actresses the rudiments of horsemanship to ascertain that they do not ruin every horse they come into contact with…”

  I should have realized. Why had I not guessed? I leaned back against the door-frame for support.

  “…second, because I am the owner of the horse you will be riding in the serial, which gives me a vested interest in your progress…”

  I might have known it. It was obvious that the horse they used for the location test would also appear in the film. Why, the Director had even told me so himself. When I had protested that I was unprepared for riding and had demanded that the co-star should ride instead, the Director had looked at me in amazement. “What d’you mean, let the co-star do it?” he had said. “The horse is the co-star!”

  “…furthermore, I have been appointed Horsemaster for the filming of The Silver Bridle which, in case you had forgotten, is the title of the serial you are supposedly the star of. And finally,” said Anthony, “because I think you need to be taught a lesson about horses you won’t forget in a hurry, Grace Darling, and I am just the person to make damned sure you learn it.”

  The man was insufferable. Shaken as I was, I felt a resurgence of dislike for him; for his unspeakable arrogance, for the contemptuous way he had said ‘in case you had forgotten’ and ‘supposedly the star of’. Stunned as I was, I could not let him get away with it. I took a deep breath. I found my voice. “I think you should explain precisely what you mean by a lesson I won’t forget in a hurry,” I said angrily. “ATC have sent me here to learn to ride, not to give you the opportunity to settle an imaginary score.”

  “Imaginary?” The dark eyes narrowed. “I doubt very much if any score I have to settle would be imaginary, Grace Darling, but if you really want me to explain what I mean then I shall be happy to oblige.” He smiled again, a thin, humourless smile, and ran a caressing hand down the black horse’s neck. “You, in common with a great many members of your so-called profession, are a selfish, egotistical little bitch, and if you are going to work with my horses you have to change your attitude…”

  How dare he call me a bitch! It was altogether too much. “Now wait a minute,” I interrupted furiously, “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this!” Nor did I intend to do so. I turned to leave but Anthony was at the door in an instant and his fingers had locked above my elbow like a clamp. I tried, but it was impossible to pull away.

  “You do have to listen, Grace Darling.” The dark and dangerous face was uncomfortably close to mine. I was not going to allow myself to be intimidated, but all the same my heart began to thud in an uncomfortable manner and my throat dried. “I shall make you hear me, even if I am obliged to fit hobbles to your ankles and a halter round your neck in order to restrain you.” The voice was menacingly soft, the eyes like flint. “You
didn’t care about anything at the film test apart from your own chances, did you? The only thing that mattered was how good you looked for the camera. The only thing you cared about was cheating your way into a part which you were not entitled to…”

  I did not want to hear this. I did not want to look at him. I twisted my face away.

  “…the fact that you had no idea how to ride, knew nothing about horses, that you had lied your way into the test, the fact that your ignorance put my horse at risk, endangering its life, didn’t matter to you, did it?”

  I was not going to answer him. I had nothing to say. I saw no point in entering into an argument because as soon as he released me I was going to leave. I was not going to stay at Moat Farm – not for ATC, not for Tom Silver, not for anyone or anything – not with Anthony in charge.

  “Did it?”

  A hand of steel took hold of my chin, turned my unwilling head. I had been determined not to speak, but now I was forced to say something in my own defence. “I didn’t endanger the horse’s life!” I burst out. “How can you say that? How dare you make accusations against me when they are totally untrue! I didn’t hurt your horse at all!” In order to exonerate myself I tried to remember exactly what had happened, whether I had been guilty of negligence as well as ignorance, but I could only recall the shock of the horse’s sudden appearance on the scene, and the feeling of despair as the Director had steered me purposefully towards the empty saddle. I could remember thinking how beautiful he was, the black horse, the perpetuator of my downfall; how his coat had gleamed like satin; how the long mane had been slippery as silk when I touched it; but had I really considered for one moment that the horse might be damaged as a consequence of my inexperience? The unwelcome truth of the matter was that I had not, and the realization did not help my current predicament one little bit.

  “All right, so I didn’t consider the horse! I know it sounds naïve, but it looked big enough and strong enough to take care of itself. I thought… no,” I corrected myself, “I knew, that if anyone was going to be hurt it would be me!”

  I looked directly into the dark and angry eyes as I spoke so that even Anthony, who couldn’t be told anything, would realize that it was the truth. Abruptly I felt myself released. Now it was Anthony who turned aside, moving back to the black horse. “But it wasn’t you who was hurt, was it, Grace Darling?” he said bitterly. “You escaped with a few bruises. It was The Raven who was lamed for five weeks. It was The Raven who, but for the intervention of the Almighty, might have been permanently damaged!”

  The Raven lame for five weeks? And all of it my fault? I could not believe it. I stared at Anthony. I stared at The Raven, at his strong-looking, whole-looking, gleaming legs, at his beautiful face and the way his pricked ears followed our argument, flicking from one to the other, his generously deep and liquid eyes overlaid with anxiety at the displeasure in his master’s voice.

  “But I didn’t know! I honestly had no idea!”

  “Of course you had no idea.” Anthony picked up a leather roller from the corner of the stable, placing it behind The Raven’s well-defined withers in order to secure the blanket, reaching easily under the horse’s belly for the straps. “It wouldn’t have occurred to you to enquire. But why should you care? It wouldn’t have mattered to you if The Raven had broken a bone and been shot as a result of it, as long as you got the part you wanted.”

  He was determined to show me no mercy. But of course, in his eyes I did not deserve any. “You’ve no right to say that,” I said, “it isn’t fair. And it isn’t true either. Horses don’t always have to be shot if they break a bone – what about Mill Reef?”

  Anthony looked round at me, obviously surprised that I should even remember the horse’s name. “Mill Reef was a successful racehorse and a stallion who could earn his owners millions in stud fees,” he said in a cold voice. “The Raven has been gelded. His useful life would have been over. If what happened to Mill Reef had happened to The Raven there would have been no second career open to him. He would have had a bullet put through his brain.”

  “Don’t!” Involuntarily I glanced at The Raven’s head, at the wide brow under the long, silken forelock, and my stomach jumped at the thought of it. “How can you even say it!”

  “I can say it because I want you to know how it is with horses, Grace Darling, because it’s important. It’s part of your education.” Anthony turned, slipping a protective arm across the horse’s neck. The Raven turned his head and touched him gently with his nose. I was not sure if horses knew about love, but it seemed to me that The Raven loved Anthony. And if his horses loved him, who knew him best, then surely he could not be as hateful as he appeared.

  “They don’t put plaster casts on horses’ legs, because we can’t actually speak their language, we can’t explain. Horses don’t understand – they try to escape from them, they panic, they throw themselves about and cause even more damage. And so they are shot.” Anthony gave me one of his humourless smiles. “They Shoot Horses Don’t They. To you, it’s just a film title; to me, it’s a fact of life.”

  How could it be? Was he just exaggerating in order to punish me? After all, if horses were such fragile creatures, if every move we made, every scene we shot, was to be benighted by the ever-present, terrifying possibility of broken bones and bullets through the brain, how on earth would we ever film the series?

  “Of course,” Anthony went on in a level voice, “you are not the first actress to damage a horse just for the sake of the camera, far from it. Horses have always been looked upon as expendable in your profession. The actors and stuntmen in the early Westerns were probably the worst offenders. They used trip wires to make sure the horses fell in the right places. Six times out of ten the poor devils broke their necks.”

  I stared at him I disbelief. Could it be true? Yet why would he lie? Would I ever be able to watch a Western again without being agonized by every fall? Without wondering if the horse would scramble to its feet when the camera had moved on, or simply continued to lie there…

  “Historical Drama was almost as bad. Coach horses were blinkered or blindfolded to be driven over cliffs just to get the shots. Horses were even shipwrecked, thrown overboard, dropped into the sea with no hope of recovery; drowned, just for the camera…”

  “Stop it!” No wonder he was so fiercely protective about his horses. These things were barbaric, horrific…

  “Then there were the epics. Remember Ben Hur? A hundred and fifty horses were killed just filming the chariot racing scenes – remember that when you next watch it.”

  “As if I could – knowing that!” I turned to the doorway, sickened. For the first time in my life I was ashamed of my chosen profession. How could people have justified such atrocities? Who had allowed such monstrous cruelties to be perpetuated in the name of entertainment? This time Anthony allowed me to leave.

  I blundered into Angel, carrying a coiled lunge rein and a whip. “Oh there you are,” she said in an annoyed tone. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Angel,” I said weakly, as we walked along the row of stables, “you know when Anthony supplied the horse for the location film test? Well, after I’d made such a mess of it, did anyone contact him about me afterwards? Was he consulted? Did anyone ask for his opinion?”

  “There was a telephone call, if that’s what you mean. And I know he said he would be glad to have the opportunity to turn you into a rider, because I was listening. He actually said he couldn’t wait.”

  “I bet he couldn’t,” I said with feeling.

  “Richard?” I had found a telephone. I needed to talk to someone.

  “Grace. This is a surprise.”

  The sarcastic tone dashed all hope of comfort. “You might sound a little more welcoming.”

  “Welcoming?” There was a chilly pause. “Grace, I feel sure I don’t need to remind you of what you said to me the night you left.”

  “No.” I agreed, “You don’t. I know what I said, but
…”

  “A separation, you wanted. A cooling-off period. We were getting too heavily involved. I won’t contact you, you said, and you must promise not to contact me. Your words, Grace, not mine. Your decision.”

  “Richard listen, I know I said that, but…”

  “It isn’t as if it’s the first time, Grace. It’s happened before. It’s happened too many times. To be perfectly honest, I’m getting tired of it. I’m asking myself if it’s worth it.”

  This was well-worn territory.

  “I appreciate you have to consider your career…”

  “I do have to consider my career. It’s important that I make a success of it, Richard. You know that.”

  “I realize that this is your big chance…”

  “The serial is my big chance, it could be my only chance. If I make a mess of this, if I fluff it…”

  “I know this isn’t a good time to become deeply involved…”

  “It isn’t because I don’t want to, it’s because I can’t afford to be involved. All my energies have to be put into my work…”

  “All your emotions…”

  “All my emotions need to be directed towards… Richard, you are mocking me!”

  “The whole affair is a mockery, Grace! All I’m demonstrating is that I know the responses off by heart, I’ve heard them so many times. As a matter of fact I am sick and tired of hearing them!”

  I closed my eyes. I must have been out of my mind to ring Richard when we had parted on such difficult terms. “Are you telling me you don’t want to see me again?”

  “I didn’t actually say that.”

  “No, but…”

  “You used me, Grace. You used me for six weeks. You encouraged me to believe that things were working out, then off you went to pursue your career and told me not to contact you. Where did that leave me? How was I supposed to feel?”