by Fern Britton
Beyond the scaffolding was the crew village. Wardrobe trucks, make-up trucks, lighting, and props trucks were parked on the grass between the wooden set and council houses. The residents of the council houses had become firm mates with all the crew. Cups of tea were shared at first, followed soon by invitations to the pub, which were gladly accepted, and there were even a few burgeoning romances going on between residents and visitors.
Across the green from her office, Helen had watched as Pendruggan Farmhouse had its satellite dish removed, and later most of the inside furniture too. The farmer and his wife were renting the house out to be used as interiors for both the bank and for Trimsome Manor.
‘Very ’igh and mighty they’re gettin’,’ Queenie had sniffed. ‘Sylvia keeps telling me their ’ouse is an architectural gem.’ More sniffs. ‘I told ’er I wouldn’t want no strangers pickin’ through my things. Oh no.’
‘Nothing to do with your shop not being used then, Queenie?’
‘Do me a favour! I haven’t a resentful bone in me body, but I don’t like people gettin’ above themselves. Anyway, I’m filming my scenes soon. Got costume fittings tomorrow. That’ll show ’em.’
Queenie had been the first to put her name down for supporting artist work. She had set the list up herself, on her counter, so that she could vet applicants. When thirty people had signed up, she closed the list and delivered it to Helen’s office in person.
‘’ere you go, darlin’. Got you some good ’uns ’ere.’
Helen scanned the names. ‘All your friends, I see!’
‘Don’t know what you mean. Them’s talented people.’ She gave Helen a hearty wink and with a crackly laugh went back to her shop.
*
All the preparations were virtually finished now, and tomorrow would be the first day on set. Finally, at 10 p.m., Penny called it a day. They locked up the office and Penny headed off to the Starfish, while Helen said good night to the two security guards doing their rounds and walked gratefully home.
When she got back to Gull’s Cry, there was a note on her mat from Simon.
Dear Helen,
Everything still OK for ‘The Bish’s supps’, as you call it? I’ll pick you up as we arranged. Hope you aren’t too tired tonight. Looking forward to seeing you.
Yours
Simon x
Only two nights away. This was definitely one of those arrangements Helen was regretting accepting. Not because she didn’t want to spend time with Simon but because she was so tired. At least she had her outfit ready and hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
After sniffily dismissing the black trouser suit and the pink dress, Penny had generously offered Helen the run of her wardrobe. They had settled on a sleek midnight-blue crêpe jersey dress. It just touched the top of her knees, and with some matching tights and very high Gina heels (also Penny’s), she would look pretty good.
Simon had been wonderful to her and Penny since New Year. He had helped get all the filming permissions past the parish council and the local authorities, had helped put up the signage directing the film trucks from the main road to the village via the maze of lanes, and had offered the vicarage to Dahlia and David whenever they wanted to get away from the buzz of the crew.
He had even taken to bringing round hot suppers to Helen and Penny when he knew they might not have time to cook.
He had really become a fixture in the women’s lives, adapting so well to the invasion that Helen no longer saw him as a diffident man with cripplingly good manners, but more as a capable man to whom one could turn in a crisis. Even Penny couldn’t make him blush any more. Without realising it, they had become the Three Musketeers.
Of Piran she had seen little. He was back, working in the churchyard, but as she had no need to go out into the winter garden, their contact was limited.
A couple of days earlier, over morning coffee at the pub, Dorrie had filled her in on Piran’s forthcoming nuptials with Dawn. Apparently he was in no hurry to get married, but Dawn had booked the first of September with Simon and was busy planning guest lists, dressmakers and flowers. The reception, to be held at the Starfish, was for five hundred of their closest friends.
‘Piran don’t have five hundred friends! Five, maybe – but that’s at a push. He’s a private man, see. We all love him, but he rarely lets anyone into his little circle. Must be Dawn’s friends, I suppose. Can’t see him putting up with it myself,’ Dorrie told her.
Helen found herself thinking about how much she’d like to be a friend of Piran’s. In truth, she’d like him to fancy her so that she could turn the pig-headed git down. But oh how delicious it would be to have that raven-headed varmint after her. How wonderful to feel his hands round her waist and his lips on hers …
‘Are you listening?’
Helen came back to the present. ‘Er, yes, sorry.’
But the moment Dorrie resumed her monologue, Helen slid back into her thoughts. My God. What was wrong with her – fantasising about Piran? She laughed to herself. It must be the stress of life on set getting to her! Piran Ambrose might well be dangerously attractive, but she would be a fool to want to be involved with the man. No way.
Running her fingers over Simon’s note now, she thought of Piran again. The way he’d held her so protectively on the beach, the feel of his leg beside her in church, his delicious teasing of her …
‘Get a grip, woman,’ she said to the empty room. Then she put Simon’s note on the kitchen table, made herself a cup of Ovaltine and went to bed.
She dreamt of Simon finding her and Gray making love in the church. He had been pleased for her and agreed to remarry them. Once he’d gone, she looked up at Gray, but it wasn’t him. It was Piran.
Part Two
30
Day one of filming, 8.45 a.m. They were inside the farmhouse. Sven was standing looking at a monitor and stroking his beard.
‘OK, Gilly, when you’re ready.’
Gilly stood, legs slightly apart, walkie-talkie in hand, headphones on, and boomed at the crew and actors around her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, listen up. We’re going for the first take. Final checks, please.’
The make-up artists and costume team stepped into the pool of light surrounding Mr Tibbs and Nancy Trumpet. They smoothed Nancy’s wig and brushed invisible lint from Mr Tibbs’ shoulders. The art director had transformed the farmhouse’s little-used dining room into the interior of Mr Tibbs’ office in the South-West Friendly Bank. Noses powdered and lipstick refreshed, make-up and wardrobe retreated.
Gilly called out, ‘Quiet, please! Shh shh shh. Turnover.’
‘Running,’ said the camera operator.
‘And speed,’ said the soundman.
‘Mark it,’ the cameraman again. A young man with a clapperboard put it in front of the camera.
‘Scene seven, shot one, take one.’ He clapped the board’s arm.
‘Set,’ called the cameraman.
‘Action,’ shouted Gilly.
MR TIBBS: Mrs Trumpet. Have you been tidying my files again?
MRS TRUMPET: I may have moved one or two items from the floor to your cabinet, yes.
MR TIBBS: You are marvellous in every way, Trumpet, but your annoying habit of hiding my per—
The soundman interjected with just one word, ‘Airplane.’
‘And cut,’ said Gilly.
Helen and Penny stood quietly in a corner of the room watching.
‘I couldn’t hear that plane,’ she whispered to Penny.
‘It’s amazing what tiny sounds the equipment will pick up. They are the bane of the soundman’s life. Very annoying when a scene is going well. You’ll see, we’ll stop for cars, tractors, chickens and even squeaky bikes.’
The make-up artists quickly nipped in and repowdered both David and Dahlia’s faces.
‘She’s only just done that,’ whispered Helen again.
‘It’s the lights. When you are directly under them, as they are, you start to shine very qu
ickly. Now shush.’
‘Scene seven, shot one, take two.’ Clap.
Someone sneezed off-camera.
‘Keep rolling and quiet PLEASE,’ shouted Gilly. ‘And, action.’
MR TIBBS: Mrs Trumpet, have you been tidying my files again?
MRS TRUMPET: I may have moved one or two items from the floor to your cabinet, yes.
MR TIBBS: You are marvellous in every way, Trumpet, but your annoying habit of hiding my personal papers is really not your responsibility. I distinctly remember putting a buff envelope on my desk this morning, and now it has gone.
MRS TRUMPET: Do you mean this one? [Nancy bends over giving Mr Tibbs a perfect view of her perfect posterior and extracts a buff envelope from the rubbish bin] It must have fallen off this higgledy pile of post I asked you to sign yesterday.
MR TIBBS: Ah. Dear Trumpet, what would I do without you? [Mr Tibbs sits] Coffee time, I think. Don’t you?
[Nancy smiles indulgently and leaves the office]
‘And cut,’ cried Gilly.
Sven stepped into the set. ‘David, that’s great. I love the way you gave Nancy that little twinkle. Dahlia, darling, you’re tremendous! Great performances. But in the next take I want to see a little less sexual tension. We must keep the audience guessing for as long as possible. Will she, won’t she? Will he, won’t he? That kind of thing.’ Sven looked at Gilly. ‘OK. Let’s go again.’
Dahlia called him back. ‘How does the wig look on camera, Sven?’ She was pulling at the back of her head. The make-up lady, standing slightly off set, crossed her arms with annoyance.
‘Really good.’
‘Is it set a bit too tight? Could I loosen the bun a little and have some soft tendrils?’
‘Good idea. But not for this scene.’ Sven came off the set and had a quiet word with the make-up lady. ‘She thinks I’m telling you to loosen it for later, but I’m telling you to leave it the way it is. You’ve got it just right. Any problems, I’ll deal with it.’
The make-up lady thanked him and managed an innocent nod to Dahlia, who looked pleased to have got her own way.
‘Scene seven, shot one, take three.’ Clap.
With each take, and there were many, Helen’s admiration for the patience and good humour of the team grew. David and Dahlia were word perfect each time, but modified their performance with each take in order to give Sven what he wanted, though much of it would end up on the cutting-room floor. Helen could see a real on-screen chemistry between the two actors and said so to Penny.
‘I felt they’d be good, but this is better than we could have hoped for. Especially on day one. Let’s just hope the audience like it. If we can get a commission for a whole series, I can retire!’
And so the morning went on. Every scene had to be shot from several points of view with just the one camera. By the time they had three scenes in the can, what with filming the reverse angles, over the shoulders and cutaways, it was lunchtime.
Walking out of the warm fug of the farmhouse and back into the bleak cold, Helen saw Jako and Haz carrying trays of hot food over to the respective Winnebagos of David Cunningham and Dahlia Dahling.
‘All right, Helen? It was a good morning, wasn’t it,’ Jako shouted over.
‘Yes. It seemed to go really well.’
Penny touched her elbow. ‘Darling, I’ll have my lunch in David’s winnie. I want to congratulate him and make sure he’s OK. Have to keep the talent happy, you know!’
‘Are you asking me to get your lunch and deliver it to you, you lazy cow?’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were my paid PA?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Helen pretended to tug her forelock and walked across the green towards the throng of hungry actors and crew.
The queue for lunch was long, but Sven ushered her to the front: ‘Exec producer and director’s perk.’
Lunch was cooked inside the catering lorry, and served through an open side like a hot dog van at a fête. The menu was extensive, and not a burger bun in sight. There was Thai green curry, shepherd’s pie and cod mornay, with Eton mess, sticky toffee, and syrup sponge for pudding. Helen chose for herself and Penny, then staggered back to the imposing Winnebago. Taped to the door was a laminated sheet with a large star on it and ‘Mr David Cunningham’ typed underneath. She knocked and heard ‘Enter’. She climbed in.
*
David was lying on a masseur’s bench while a young man worked on the muscles of his back.
‘Oh, Mr Cunningham. Sorry to disturb you. I was looking for Penny. I’m Helen, her PA.’
‘She’s in the loo, love. Just leave it there,’ said David.
‘Right. Is there anything I can get you while I’m here?’
‘Yeah. Who supplies the charlie round here?’
‘I’m not familiar with all the film language yet. But if you can tell me what the charlie is, I’ll get it.’
David Cunningham and the masseur fell about laughing. Hearing the noise, Penny opened the door at the other end of the winnie, still drying her hands on a paper towel.
‘What did I miss?’
‘Your PA isn’t entirely au fait with the lingo, bless her. I just need a little charlie to keep the old performance up.’
‘Cocaine? Absolutely not, David! This isn’t LA, and I am not allowing my staff to be your drug-dealers. Got that?’
David laughed again. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’
Leaving David to the rest of his massage, Penny and Helen headed off outside to some nearby tables and chairs that had been put out so the crew could sit down to eat.
Penny was furious. ‘How dare he expect you to get him his filthy drugs! He’s been in Hollywood too long,’ she ranted, through a mouthful of cod mornay. ‘Asking my PA to get him his fix, indeed! Unbelievable!’
She took a deep breath and then said pragmatically, ‘He knows that’s the runner’s job. Gilly can get Haz or Jako on to it straight away.’ Then she stomped off, leaving her lunch half-eaten.
*
The afternoon shoot went slowly. Dahlia was having a wardrobe crisis.
‘Sven, this skirt is much too long. I can’t move in it. It’s like a hobble skirt. Really.’
‘Dahlia, it’s correct for the period and looks sensational on your cute little tush.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Dahlia smiled seductively and then looked quite serious. ‘But when I walk up the little steps to reach the old files, you can’t see my “correct for the period” suspenders and stocking tops.’
David’s pupils almost popped out of his head, ‘She’s right, Sven. Old Tibbs would like a glimpse of those.’
Sven shot back, ‘Not in this scene. Now come on, people, or we’ll get behind schedule.’
‘Final checks, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ Gilly called. ‘Let’s get this in the can.’ And on they went again.
*
Helen couldn’t believe how painfully her feet ached when she got to bed that night and it seemed as though her eyes had only been shut for a few moments before she was up at a sparrows fart to face a day very much like the one before.
It was the day of the bishop’s dinner and Penny had agreed, after a lot of grumbling, to let her go early so that she would have time to get ready. Never had her bath been more welcoming. She lay in the suds listening to Radio 4. It was only when the six o’clock pips went that she realised she had dozed for almost half an hour. She leapt out, dried herself and was somehow ready for Simon’s knock on the door at six-thirty.
31
Simon stood on the doorstep looking almost trendy. He’d been to the optician and chosen some new tortoise-shell, Arthur Milleresque frames. With his balding head and newly close-cropped sides he looked most distinguished.
‘Wow! Look at you!’
‘Are they too much? Do I look silly?’
‘No! You look great. And is this a new suit?’
He stepped back in order for her to get a really good view.
‘Yes. The most expe
nsive I think I’ve ever bought. A gents’ outfitters in Truro kitted me out. My other suits were getting a bit shiny and an evening with the bishop and you, called for something new. New dog collar too, see?’
‘The smartest clergyman in England. It’s an honour to be your date for the night.’
Simon’s chocolate-button eyes shone.
‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to taking you out. Sorry it’s not to the opera or the ballet.’
‘Good. Because I can’t abide either. Lead on, Macduff.’
*
Even though it was the beginning of February, the evening held a hint of early spring. The headlights picked out primroses studding the hedgerows, and early ferns were in tight curl.
It was a clear night and the stars twinkled in the heavens. Simon had a CD of classical music playing quietly.
Helen felt totally at peace. ‘What’s this?’
‘Rachmaninov. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
They let the music enfold them as Simon drove his elderly Volvo to its destination. He glanced at Helen. Her eyes were closed. There were dark shadows under them, but her lips were tilted up at the edges in happiness. Simon allowed himself a little longer to look at her, and then turned his eyes back to the road and concentrated on the drive.
*
‘Ah bless you, bless you. Welcome. Come on in out of the cold.’
The bishop was standing in the grand hallway of his official residence. The housekeeper had opened the front door and was gathering up their coats.
‘My lord, please may I introduce a dear friend of mine, Mrs Helen Merrifield.’
‘Mrs Merrifield, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And it’s good to see you too, Simon. Come into the drawing room, we have a fire going.’
They followed the rounded, jolly shape of the bishop and entered a room in which waited two other clergyman and their wives, and the bishop’s wife, Ruth, who bustled towards them with her hand outstretched.