'I'm sorry, sorry, sorry,' Frances gasped, laughter dying as her wet body responded with tingling vitality to the weight of his own, pressed hard against her. 'You win,' she breathed, fighting for breath and composure, suddenly still.
Felix eased his weight. 'You look rather sandy. Miss Heron,' he observed.
'No more than you do, Mr Ravenscar,' she replied, equally grave.
He bent his head and kissed her gently, and the kiss tasted of salt, then he rose to his feet, pulled her up and together they ran down to the sea to wash away the sand.
Another half an hour of curiosity among the rock pools and they were dry, and viewing the rapidly encroaching sea, they decided to make tracks for home.
When Frances came back from changing, Felix was brushing the dry sand from his hair with his hands.
'I dread to think what mine looks like,' she said ruefully.
'It has a certain will-o'-the-wisp attraction,' conceded Felix, giving his lopsided grin.
'I'm sure it has,' she agreed, pushing her feet into sandals. 'Is that everything?'
'Not quite.'
Frances followed his gaze which had settled on her poor sun-hat, lying crumpled and forlorn where he had tossed it.
'It looks a wreck, but I'll take it,' she said with a laugh.
For sentimental reasons, she added to herself, picking it up and thrusting it into her bag, before giving a last look round the cove and following Felix up the cliff path.
CHAPTER SIX
When her alarm rang at three the next morning Frances quietened it with her palm and gave a groan. It was still dark outside and her bed was very warm. Only the knowledge that Rick was calling for her in half an hour made her finally throw back the covers and tiptoe quietly to the bathroom.
She had warned the family at the farm that she would be rising early and had been given the freedom of the kitchen. Not that she could manage breakfast, even the thought of food made her feel queasy, but she did force a hot drink down before abandoning the warm kitchen. She was ready and waiting by the yard gate when Rick's headlights came sweeping round the bend and his van drew to a halt. She climbed in, trying to close the door noiselessly.
'Hullo, Rick. What a Godforsaken hour!'
He grinned. 'Wait until you see yon sunrise, then maybe you'll reckon it's worth it, lass,' he told her, swinging the vehicle round the narrow curving lanes, his headlights blazing a trail between the high hedgerows.
'If I can see it for the mist,' Frances grumbled, giving a yawn, 'and if I can keep my eyes open!'
'You'll be awake by the time we've finished with you,' Rick assured her with grim amusement, and Frances pulled a face.
'I know! I've read the script too, remember. This is the day I catch pneumonia,' she retorted, falling silent, wondering why she hadn't casually mentioned the day before that she had a horror of boats. Thinking of Felix and the unexpected time with him made her remember the apology that was owing and turning impulsively in her seat she said earnestly:
'Rick, I'm so sorry about yesterday, not turning up for rehearsal, I mean, but honestly, I wasn't given the message. Whatever dear Gemma says to the contrary, she didn't tell me. You know I'd own up if I'd just forgotten to come, don't you?'
He flicked her a glance and then returned his concentration to the road ahead. 'Aye, I ken that, lass, and it doesna' matter, we can start that bit earlier today . . . it was really for you that Felix organised it.'
She nodded miserably. 'Yes, I know, that's what makes it worse.' She heaved a sigh. 'Oh, well, there's nothing can be done about it now.'
'And the day wasna' spoilt.'
Rick said this so blandly that Frances looked at him suspiciously. She couldn't tell whether he was referring to his day or her own.
'What did you do?' she asked at last.
'Och, I took the wife out for a wee bite to eat. And you?'
Frances pulled the duffle coat more warmly round her and pushed her hands deeply into the pockets. 'After a few unpleasant minutes we went for a picnic.' She stared out, not seeing the dark winding road ahead, but seeing instead a sun-drenched beach and two people laughing in the sand, suddenly silenced by a kiss.
'Well, the man had had a shock which wouldna' have helped his nerves,' Rick observed, and Frances turned a puzzled face.
'What do you mean, a shock?' she asked.
Rick raised a brow. 'He didna' tell you, then? There was a lassie rescued by the lifeguard from the beach where we all meet, and rumour was flying round that it was you. It wasna' known if the lass had recovered or not. The boss went to the hospital and was told she'd died. He was asked to identify the body . . . and was thankful to be able to tell them that it wasna' yourself.'
'Oh, Rick, how awful! I had no idea . . . He never said a word,' Frances breathed, deeply distressed.
Rick could see how upset she was and purposely made her talk.
'What did you do after the picnic, then ?'
'We played golf,' she told him. I used to play with my father in my early teens and I enjoyed playing a few holes again . . . I suppose you never quite forget the basics.' She paused. 'Felix is good.'
'Aye, I would suppose he is. The boss likes to master whatever he sets out to do,' observed Rick with surprising insight.
'We finished up in a small pub, a lovely place, and Felix said that I sent the local blood pressure sky high with my shorts!' She grinned. 'They seemed to survive. I shall have to make my apologies to Julian when I see him. I had made a tentative arrangement with him for the evening.'
'He'll survive too,' was Rick's rather enigmatic reply.
Frances forced her thoughts away from the day before on to the day ahead. She brought out the script from her pocket, much folded and dog-eared, and by the light from the dashboard began to read it through. It was mostly action with very little dialogue, but it was the!' action part that was worrying her. Even the thought of it was enough to make her feel slightly sick. She told herself crossly to pull herself together, that her imagination was exaggerating things out of all proportion, and pushing the script back into her pocket she asked: 'Do you think the sky is lighter. Rick?' and received a grunt of assent in return.
He swung the van down towards the coast and after a series of even narrower lanes, so narrow that had another vehicle approached it would have had to back up, he finally turned off into a field, pulling up alongside the row of studio trailers.
It was getting lighter all the time and technicians were walking about, stamping their feet, talking quietly, the red glow of an occasional cigarette or the chink of a tea mug coming from the shadows.
Frances made her way to the trailer that housed the costumes. Madge, the wardrobe mistress, was already there, and without much conversation they began to bring Mary Trewith once more to life, ready for the first scene of the day's shooting.
As Madge helped her into a loosely woven green dress, covered by a cream woollen shawl, she said: 'I've three more dry changes for you, Frances. You're bound to get soaked through, rehearsing this bit, and we'll save the best dress and shawl for the final take.'
Frances nodded, smiled her thanks, rather tremulously, and then left, working her way along the line until she came to the make-up trailer. It was there she found Julian, already in costume, and having the finishing touches applied to his make-up. He turned as he heard the door open,
'Come in, Frank, and close the door. No point in our freezing to death before it's necessary. And stop looking so agonized,' he admonished with mock severity. 'It's not the first and probably won't be the last time I've been stood up on a date.' Frances pulled the door shut and sat herself down on the chair next to his, switching on the overhead mirror light.
'I'm sorry, Julian, truly I am. Yesterday just did not go as planned.'
'Don't worry, dear girl,' Julian continued lightly, 'I had a very enjoyable chat with your farmer friend and tasted some of his excellent elder wine. When the message came that you were going to be late . . .'
'Message? What message?' demanded Frances, startled.
Julian waited while the make-up girl flicked the loose powder from his face before answering. 'The message that Felix phoned through to your farmer friend to say you were safe, not kidnapped or attacked, and would be late,' he explained patiently.
'I didn't know he'd done that,' Frances said slowly, remembering that Felix had made a phone call at the pub where they had stopped. The make-up girl draped a protective covering over her costume and began to tie her hair back. Frances caught Julian's pensive look through the mirror and pretended she hadn't.
With make-up completed it was only necessary for the hairdresser to do her job and then they were both walking along the cliff-top and down towards the shore. The technical crew were already there, dotted along the sand, some positioned up near the Morwenstow Church.
It was getting quite light now, but the breeze was sharp and the sea looked grey and uninviting. Felix was also there, talking to his crew, pointing to where the cameras were to be set. As Frances and Julian crunched over the shingle towards him Felix came to meet them. He was dressed in a short, warm coat, collar upturned, and his trousers were tucked into serviceable Wellington boots. He greeted them with a brief nod and went straight into the details of the filming.
'We have about an hour to rehearse and then the light will be right, and with any luck, the tide too. You'll be over there, Julian,' and Felix turned, pointing out to sea at some rocks, only the tips of which were showing above the waves, 'and you'll be clinging for dear life. Frances will row over, help you into the boat and get you back to shore. Don't forget that your arm is supposed to be broken. I'm afraid it's going to be a cold, wet session for you both.' He swung round and peered at Frances. 'Are you all right?' he asked sharply, and when she nodded, continued briskly:
'Frances, you will then help Julian up the cliff path towards the church. We have a camera set just inside and you'll both enter by the main doors, which you, Frances, will shut behind you and turn the key.' He paused. 'Is that clear? Any questions?' When none were forthcoming, Felix walked down the beach.
Julian exchanged a wry look with Frances and putting his arm round her shoulders gave her a squeeze. She looked up and smiled gratefully. She had said nothing to Julian about her anxiety for the job ahead, but realised he must have sensed that she was not happy about what she had to do.
'Right, Frances, come and have a go,' came the call from the water's edge," and with a deep breath she clutched the shawl together and plodded stoically across the sand. When she reached him, Felix said:
'Mr Johnson's going with you this time, to make sure you know what you're doing, and then Rick will take his place with the camera. If you capsize, don't worry, we have two powerful motorboats at the ready to drag you out.'
'How reassuring,' commented Frances, willing her stomach not to disgrace her.
'You'll have to row alone for the long-distance shots,' he told her, swinging round to check again the camera angle, and then returning his regard to her, 'but by then you should be quite proficient at it—we hope! The tide will help you going out to the rocks, but it will be quite a pull coming back. If you can't manage it, we'll do a fake.'
Frances nodded and smiled weakly, and Felix began to lead her towards the boat.
'Cheer up. Kitchen's cooking a grand breakfast for when it's all over. In you get, let's get started.'
Frances splashed through the surf, the coldness of the water acting as an abrasive, and climbed awkwardly into the boat. The rowing part wasn't going to bother her, she had often gone out with her pals as a child and could handle oars as well as any boy. No, it was the memories that would come rushing back once she was out there where the swell was high . . . and she shut off her thoughts and began to pull on the oars.
For the next two hours they all worked hard under extremely difficult conditions, but it was Frances and Julian who bore the brunt of the physical exertion. Three times they changed into dry clothes, forcing scalding hot drinks down for warmth. When the time came for the final take everyone was working with grim determination to get the job over and done with as quickly as possible. Working with senses heightened, their experience stretched to the utmost, so that the shots and the acting would be good, and precious time and energy wouldn't be wasted for any re-takes.
Rowing the boat across to the rocks, Frances had a momentary panic as it lifted high on the crest of a huge mound of sea and in the next moment sank into the trough of the next wave. The only thing that kept her going was Felix's approval.
They went through the action of the script and by the time they were staggering up the cliff path neither Julian nor Frances was having to act their physical distress. Once inside the church Julian fell into a heap on the floor, giving a very real account of a man who had been marooned on rocks half covered by sea, and Frances, as she leaned her weight against the wooden door and turned the key, had no need to act her fatigue. The cameras continued to turn for a few more seconds and then stopped.
The side door opened and Felix appeared.
'Good! Well done, both of you. You've really excelled yourselves this time. I think we're going to be lucky—Rick's hopeful, anyway, and he's usually found to be right.' He looked at the two drenched figures and cut short his eulogies, saying sharply: 'Where are those blankets? Quickly now," and he himself wrapped one round Frances as she stood, teeth chattering, face pale, the water dripping into a puddle at her feet. 'Off you go, get changed and then breakfast.' He gave her a push to follow Julian who was already disappearing out of the church, and almost before she was out of the door she could hear him discussing the next scene with the cameramen.
Oh, well, that's his job, she told herself crossly, and if you expect him to come fussing over you then you're a bigger fool than I thought! Be thankful for his words of praise.
Shivering and forcing her limbs to obey her, she plodded along the rough path. It was going to be a nice day later. Down below on the beach she could see the dreaded rowing boat being pulled up out of the water. The rocks where they had enacted their drama were now high and dry and most innocuous-looking, but she could still feel the rise and fall of the boat beneath her, could still hear the slap of the waves against the staves.
Walking was becoming difficult, the heavy water- sodden material of her dress was clinging round her legs and the blanket was becoming a dead weight. She heard someone running up from behind and was thrust forward by an arm round her waist.
'Come on, girl, you'll be sneezing all over us if you don't get into something dry quickly!' It was Felix.
'I'm awfully wet, Felix, you'll get. . .'
'Never mind me, get a move on,' he ordered, half dragging her along the cliff-top. The grass was wet with dew and a rabbit scampered not ten yards away. Frances, gritting her jaw together and concentrating on the dressing-room trailer in the distance, realized that she wasn't going to make it and couldn't hide her distress any longer.
'I'm sorry, but I'll have to . . .' she broke away and began to retch, waves of nausea sweeping over her. She was aware that Felix was supporting her head and when she had finished a handkerchief found its way into her hand. She said shakily:
'I'm always borrowing your . . .'
'What's wrong, Frances?' he demanded, concern making his voice brusque. 'I didn't think you looked well at the start, but you said you were all right.'
'I'm not ill,' she managed, trying to control the shaking.
'Like hell you're not,' he said grimly, lifting her protesting into his arms and striding across the field. 'You should have said something before,' he told her angrily, his breath warm on her face, 'we could have worked in someone to double up, the long-distance shots, anyway, or even put it off altogether for another day.' He set her on her feet and pushed open the trailer door, calling peremptorily: 'Madge ' and when Madge appeared, continued: 'Get her into some dry clothes as quick as you can, there's a dear,' and looking down at Frances, he added: 'I'll send someone over with a bra
ndy . . .'
'I don't like . . .'
'. . . in five minutes!' and the door shut behind him.
Madge raised her brows and began to peel off the wet clothes.
Three-quarters of an hour later, feeling warmer, Frances was sipping strong hot tea, laced with brandy. She was on her own in the trailer and glad of it, for she wasn't in complete control, even yet. She gave a sigh and rested her chin thoughtfully on her hands.
Now it was all over she felt a great weariness sweeping over her, not merely physically but mentally as well. She had known the shooting of those scenes was not going to be easy, but the reality had been far worse than she had expected and the fact depressed her. The tensions of the morning welled up and turning her face to the cushion she gave way to tears, a measure of relief in the action.
She didn't really know what she was crying about, only knew the need to do so.
She didn't hear the door open, only felt the hand on her shoulder and she looked up, lashes wet and tears on her cheeks, to see Felix staring down at her. She sat up quickly, brushing her hand across her face and turning slightly away so that he couldn't see it.
'The message came that I wouldn't be needed yet,' she said gruffly, acutely embarrassed that he had found her in such a state.
'What's wrong, Frances?'
Had his voice been sympathetic she would have dissolved into tears again, but it was brisk and expressionless and was a douche to her spirits, making her reply crossly:
'Nothing's wrong! For goodness' sake, can't I have any peace ? Go away and leave me alone! I'm all right!' and she willed him to go. She felt him sit down on the seat next to her.
'Don't be ridiculous. Of course something's wrong, and I'm certainly not leaving you like this. If you'd sooner I sent for someone else to be with you, I will ... and when she furiously shook her head, he continued: 'Have you had a row with Raynor because of yesterday? Is that why you're upset?'
She stiffened. 'Julian ? No, of course not.'
Then if it's not him, what are you crying about?' Felix asked, and when she didn't answer, he added roughly: 'For goodness' sake, Frances, I'm not an ogre! You've climbed cliffs, ridden horses, done innumerable difficult things and if you were worried you should have told me today's work was too much for you and I would have understood.'
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