The Assistant Director briefed the cameramen as to what was required. “I want a long shot of the hearse approaching the church, a medium long shot of the driver and the pall-bearer climbing down, then cut to all four bearers shouldering the coffin and a tracking shot as they walk up the path. Cut to a medium shot of the widow being helped out of the cab and a tracking shot of her being supported after the coffin, with a long shot of the rest of the mourners falling in behind. From the camera on the dolly I want a fifty-fifty two shot of the widow and support as they get to the end of the rails, then pan medium long shot to Patrick standing by the stone angel, into close-up and cut. Has everybody got that?” It seemed that everyone had. The Assistant Director now gathered the actors and extras around him for their briefing. There was only one recognizable face amongst the gathering, and that was Patrick Spencer whom I had seen in the West End theatre and on television. He was a tall, willowy man, pale skinned and blond haired with a bony, rather calculating face. He was usually cast as an upper-crust villain.
The Assistant Director turned first to Anthony. “I want the hearse to approach the church at a sedate trot and stop at the gate. You stay up top whilst the bearer gets down and joins the others at the rear to shoulder the coffin and walk slowly up the path. Then you move up just enough to let the hansom cab drop the widow at the gate. Got that?”
Anthony nodded.
“You Hender, drive up a way behind the hearse and be ready to move in when he moves along, then stop and hold that position until we’re through. OK?” He turned to a rounded man with grey hair and lavishly applied sideburns. “Ken, as soon as the cab stops, you move forward to open the door and help out the grieving widow and support her up the path after the coffin. The rest of you fall in behind in a seemly procession, and keep the whole thing s-l-o-w. Any questions?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’d like to know if I’m an Extra or a Walk On.” Everyone looked at me.
The Assistant Director sighed. “What’s your name?”
“Grace Darling,” I said, using my stage name.
“Well now, Grace Darling, you’re down as an Extra on my list.”
“I know,” I said, “but an extra should be a crowd artist and I don’t seem to be. Also, an extra doesn’t take individual direction and I seem to be playing a specific part.”
“Have I given you individual direction?” the Assistant Director enquired.
“Not to me personally, but I presume I have to act like a bereaved person and allow myself to be helped out of the cab and supported after the coffin. I may even be expected to weep,” I said, “and that seems like individual direction to me.”
“You’re right,” he said.
“Also,” I added, “if you do want me to weep, I shall need a lace-trimmed handkerchief to weep into, unless you would like me to use a paper tissue.”
“No,” the Assistant Director decided, “that wouldn’t do at all. Fetch Grace Darling a lace-trimmed handkerchief somebody, and change Extra to Walk On – she’s upgraded as from this minute.”
“Well spoken, Grace Darling,” Patrick Spencer said.
“She’ll be wanting an Oscar next,” one of the mourners muttered.
A girl from Costumes returned with a pair of lace panties. “They’re the nearest I can find,” she apologized, “we seem to be out of lace-trimmed handkerchiefs.”
A shout of laughter went up from the Camera Crew. I took the lace panties with as much dignity as I could muster, feeling my face warm to red. I sensed the Extras who were playing mourners and mutes in the funeral procession, standing huddled together like a flock of black crows, were enjoying my embarrassment, that somehow they felt it served me right for getting myself upgraded.
“OK folks, if we’re all ready, let’s have a walk-through from the beginning – carriages away!” The Assistant Director despatched everyone to their positions.
At the end of the lane the AAD, in a slightly less hysterical frame of mind, relayed the Director’s call for action via his walkie-talkie, setting the black horse off towards the church at a stately trot and timing the interval after which Hender’s cab followed. At the appropriate moment, Ken opened the door and assisted me down the step and after the coffin. I sniffed into the lace panties trying to look suitably distressed, and beside us, the tracking camera on the dolly with the cameraman perched on his little seat was pushed along the rails by a crewmember known as ‘the grips’. The mutes fell in behind, and as we walked out of shot, the camera panned to Patrick Spencer standing by the stone angel.
It all seemed very simple and I imagined it would all be over in a couple of takes. After all, although the sound engineers were recording the effects – the carriage wheels on the gravel, the horse’s hooves, the scrape of the coffin as it slid out of the hearse, and the footfalls of the cortege, nobody had any lines to fluff because nobody had to speak. And as Ken informed me that we were filming the closing sequence of the film and that the credits would be running over us, it did not even seem particularly important in the dramatic sense.
The carriages reassembled at the bottom of the lane for the first take. All went swimmingly until the bearers slid out the coffin and shouldered it.
“It’s supposed to be heavy, you blockheads!” the Assistant Director shouted. “There’s supposed to be a dead weight inside! You can’t swing it up like a bloody fairy cake! Cut!” He waved his hands at the camera crew. “Cut! Let’s take it again from the beginning.”
We all returned to the bottom of the lane. I had not even got out of the cab. On the second take the bearers shouldered the coffin as if it was full of lead, but just as they were setting off up the path to the church a low-flying jet whistled across the sky. The Sound Engineer drew his finger across his throat and everyone trooped back again, stony-faced.
The carriages set off yet again down the drive.
The third take seemed to be perfect until the cameraman on the dolly announced, “Sorry folks, hair in the gate. Hate to do this to you, but we better have one more try.” This meant that a tiny shred of film had got into the aperture which would appear on the screen as a hair-like filament waving about at the edge. Amidst a chorus of groans, we returned to our starting positions once more.
By this time the grey horse was becoming restive and pranced his way down the drive, lifting his feet up like a hackney with his chin tucked into his chest. Patches of sweat appeared on his neck. This was unseemly behaviour in a horse bearing the chief mourner to a funeral, but as his high-stepping, steaming progress up the lane was unrecorded by the camera, all might have been well had he not plunged forward in an agony of impatience just as I was about to alight from the cab. As the whole vehicle lurched, my foot caught in my bombazine skirts and missed the step. I flew out of the door and fell straight through Ken’s outstretched arms on to the gravel.
“Oh, well done, Grace Darling!” the Assistant Director cried. “Beautiful! Bloody marvellous! Cut everybody! Cut! Cut! Cut! Everybody back to square one!”
“Doing your own stunts as well, dear?” one of the mutes enquired.
Ken helped me to my feet. “Don’t worry about it,” he said in a low voice, “Stay cool. Take no notice.”
I retrieved the substitute handkerchief from under the cab wheels and gritted my teeth.
“I bet that’s the first time she’s dropped her knickers for anybody!” another of the mutes shouted gleefully.
Ken pushed me back into the cab as a solid yell of laughter went up. “Ignore it,” he advised. “Don’t get rattled. For your own sake, keep steady.”
The cab bucketed away with Hender swearing at the grey horse. I picked gravel out of my gloves. I was shocked and humiliated but I tried to keep cool. I could have wept but I bit my lip instead and clenched my fists. Somehow I managed to be steady.
The fifth take was completed without a single mishap. The fact that my heart was beating like a drum and my hands shook as I was helped out of the hansom cab owed nothing to my acting ability. There
was genuine sympathy on Ken’s bewhiskered face.
The Assistant Director clapped his hands. “OK folks, that’s the one! It’s a wrap!” His attention was immediately captured by his walkie-talkie. “What wires? Where?” His head swivelled. He stared up at the sky. “Oh hell, Bernard, does it really show?” He turned back to us, agonized. “I hardly know how to say this folks, but it seems we’ve got a telephone wire just tripping through one corner of number three camera. We’ll have to do it one more time. Everybody take thirty whilst props get some dingle organized.”
There was a collective moan of anguish. The bearers shoved the coffin resignedly back into the hearse. Anthony unhitched the black horse. Hender drove the cab off towards his horse box. Ken excused himself and went off in search of the portacabin loo. The Assistant Director sent Props to purloin branches from nearby trees in order to mask the wire. The mutes flocked, but the black widow was left alone on the church path.
“Allow me to escort you to the restaurant, Grace Darling.” Patrick Spencer, lean, elegant, and decidedly sinister in his make-up, proffered his arm. The mutes flapped and gaped.
The bus, a double-decker, was properly fitted with tables and seating, a galley kitchen and servery. “Shall we go up to the terrace?” Patrick Spencer settled me at a table on the upper deck and provided coffee and mountainous scones. “Especially baked to banish stomach rumblings on the set, with a miracle ingredient guaranteed to cure anyone afflicted by the trots due to stagefright.” I did not believe him, but managed to smile. The black crows flocked nearby, fluttering their disapproval, making it clear they considered that studio etiquette was being breached.
“I hear you’re staying with the King.” From the pocket of his frock coat, Patrick Spencer produced a gold lighter, an ivory cigarette holder and a packet of Black Sobranie. He held them up to the crows. “Rather appropriate for a funeral, don’t you think?”
The crows tried to smile.
“The King?” I sipped the coffee, appreciating its comforting warmth, grateful that Patrick Spencer had placed himself firmly on my side.
“In the business he’s known as The King of the Horsemasters.”
I realized he was referring to Anthony. I nodded. I looked at the miraculous scone and wondered whether I could tackle it. I decided I could. I unbuttoned my gloves.
“Well, if you have to learn how to handle horses, there certainly isn’t anyone better to learn from.” Extracting a cigarette from the packet, he inserted it into the holder. “You know he was responsible for all the horse scenes in Sternberg’s Black Beauty?”
I had not known, but I remembered the film. It had been heartbreakingly realistic. Audiences who had not hitherto known what a bearing rein was had left the cinema aware of its cruelty, deploring the fate of the cab-horses, puffy-eyed over the death of poor Ginger. I cut into the scone.
“I had only a minor part consisting of three short scenes.” Patrick Spencer lit the black cigarette and leaned his blond head backwards, taking a long draught, watching the smoke as it rose towards the roof as he exhaled it. “But I shall never forget the way he handled those horses. It was simply incredible, especially the fire scenes. He actually worked them in the smoke, amongst the flames – they were terrified, you could see that, yet they trusted him implicitly. There is no doubt that the man is an absolute genius.”
I buttered half a scone and took a bite. Instantly I realized that I was famished. Due to the absolute genius, I had not eaten for almost two days.
“Of course, we all know he can be difficult. Take Total Eclipse for an example. I was not in the film, but I worked with Teresa Sanderson soon afterwards, and I know what happened there.”
“What did happen there?” Almost restored by the coffee and now on the second half of the scone, I looked across at him, interested.
“Teresa Sanderson was the female lead. She was playing Stella – I don’t know if you are familiar with the film? As you know, Teresa is quite a name, she has drawing power and she knows it. She also fancies herself as a horsewoman, and she made it a condition of the contract that she did all the mounted scenes. There were to be no stand-ins, no stunt riders for her part, she was going to do it all herself. Naturally, the King demurred, but there was not a lot he could do about it.” With a smile, the second scone was pushed over to my side of the table. “Do please eat mine, I beg you. I much prefer to smoke and I abhor waste.”
“Well… if you are absolutely sure you don’t want it. I did miss breakfast.” Gratefully I took the scone and returned his smile. “What happened next?”
“Things were fine for a few days, but then a gargantuan row broke out over a scene in which one of the horses had to jump over a wall with three strands of barbed wire on the top.”
“It wouldn’t have been real barbed wire, surely?”
“It could have been faked easily enough, but the King wouldn’t let his horse jump fake wire which would have broken the minute he touched it, because he said when it met the real thing the horse wouldn’t respect it, wouldn’t realize it could almost take its leg off. So although the barbs were silver-painted rubber, the wire was real.”
I had not seen the film. “Was it a high wall?” I sliced into the second scone. Patrick Spencer stubbed out his cigarette even though it was only half smoked, and removed it from the holder.
“It was a good height. I believe they started off with a low one, built it up brick by brick until it was at the maximum height for the horse to manage comfortably, then angled the camera to make it look an impossible feat.” He lit a fresh cigarette, sucking in cheeks made cadaverous by make-up, looking like a death’s head. “Jumping wasn’t Teresa’s strong point. When the King saw how she rode the horse at the wall, he demanded a stunt rider.”
“Did they give him one?”
“They did not. Teresa was adamant and she won. There was a blistering row, but the King was forced to capitulate. He schooled her apparently, and gave precise instructions on how she should approach the obstacle, but somehow she became confused, lost her nerve, who knows? The result was that the horse went through the wire instead of over it – with disastrous consequences.”
I put down my scone. “It didn’t have to be shot, did it? It didn’t break a leg?”
“No, but it was badly gashed. The King went berserk. He socked the AD, snatched all the horses off the set, loaded them into his wagon and left, right in the middle of the film. You can imagine the confusion. The whole film revolves around the horses and nobody knew what to do. Poor old Hender was called in, but how could he cope? He hasn’t the horses, and to be perfectly frank, he hasn’t the talent either. To salvage the film they had to persuade the King to come back and his condition was that they recast the female lead.”
“You mean get rid of Teresa Sanderson?” My mind flew back to the previous evening, when the coq au cochineal and the flaccid, glistening chips lay congealing on my plate, when Anthony said “And I could tell them how uncooperative you are… how inept in the saddle… and that I strongly recommend that they recast the part.” And I was small beer compared with Teresa Sanderson. “Did he succeed?”
“They had to do it. There was no other way. Teresa was paid off, Camilla Lee was brought in, and the King’s sister – Angelica, I believe her name is – did the stand-in and stunt riding.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“But then he is quite a character.”
At that moment a fluttering amongst the crows heralded the arrival of the King himself at the top of the stairs. Over Patrick Spencer’s elegantly caped shoulder I watched as he took a seat, removed his trilby hat, lodged a boot on the opposite seat. It was amazing how make-up had enhanced his brooding looks. He could have been Valentino, his eyes were so dazzlingly brilliant.
“I like you, Grace Darling,” Patrick Spencer said in his lazy, cultured voice. “I have been watching you today and you show promise. You also have spirit. But if you are going to work with the King on a film, you have to watch
your step. Do not get involved. Do not become familiar. He might play with you in the way a cat plays with a mouse; he is capable of that, but you must appreciate that he cares for nobody, for nothing, other than his horses. Keep your distance. Remember if you as much as scratch one of his precious equines, he will be merciless.”
I looked at Patrick Spencer. Over his caped shoulder I was aware of Anthony looking steadily at me. Despite the stuffy atmosphere and my many-layered costume, I felt a chill run down my back. The hairs pricked on the back of my neck.
Patrick Spencer was now attending to his third Black Sobranie. “Every now and again, Grace Darling,” he said between puffs, “remind yourself of what happened on Total Eclipse. Remember that history has a way of repeating itself. Take care.”
“Thank you for the advice. I’m grateful for it.” Suddenly the upper deck seemed unbearably claustrophobic. I wanted to get away from Patrick Spencer and his unwanted advice, from the exotic smell of his cigarettes, from the black crows, rustling their jealous feathers because the star was paying attention to a Walk-On. But most of all I wanted to get away from Anthony, who cared for nobody, who looked like Valentino but had a heart as impermeable as granite. I got up from my seat.
“Mr Spencer… Thank you for everything… Now I have to go to Make-up…”
I pulled down the spotted veil, held up my skirts and left without a glance to left or right. Once out of the chuck wagon I decided to go back to the horse boxes in search of Hender, but when I found him he was passionately engaged on the straw bales with one of the boys who were acting as pall-bearers.
I fled before either spotted me. I was not unfamiliar with homosexuality because it was quite widespread in the theatrical world. Many of the male students at the Rose Jefferson Academy where I had done my drama training had been that way inclined and the landlord of Henry Irving House where I had lodged for the last year had been not only gay but outrageously camp. So I knew all about that side of life.
Stars Don't Cry (The Silver Bridle Book 2) Page 5