The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  ‘Good,’ says Rob after I’ve finished. ‘I’d like you to do it again, but this time put away the script and if you can’t remember the lines, improvise.’

  Improvise? Yikes. Come on, remember Branworth Rep? If you can improvise your way through an entire play, then what’s two pages?

  ‘Ready,’ I say, looking unblinkingly into the eye of the camera.

  * * *

  One hour later, I’m back wandering the Glasgow streets, killing time until the two o’clock coach.

  How did it go? Fine, I think. I did my best. Will I get the part? Who knows? They gave nothing away. A noncommittal ‘We’ll be in touch.’ That’s all.

  With filming just a couple of days away, at least I won’t be left in Limboland for long.

  We’ve just pulled out of a Welcome Break service station and I’m tucking into my curly cheese sandwich, when my phone rings.

  ‘It’s Rosalind.’

  ‘Hi, Rosalind. It went well I think, but whether …’

  ‘You got the job.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Filming starts Monday. I’ll e-mail you the schedule and your e-ticket. Well done.’

  Whey hey! Even the smell of the chemical toilet and my unwashed, Big Mac-chomping neighbour can’t dampen my excitement. My first proper telly, playing an actual character, with lines and a costume, and a backstory, as opposed to the rabbit-in-the-headlights presenter of eighteen months ago.

  * * *

  Il Mulino – the next evening

  ‘It’s only a few lines, guys.’

  But my Italian supporters are having none of it.

  Luigi says he hasn’t felt this excited since Naples scored against Real Madrid, Nonna Maria has prepared a special meal for the “diva del televisione”, Rosalba and Luke perform a few Italian songs, and Francesco told me to pack an overnight bag as he has a treat in store after work.

  We toast Doon Place with my gift of Laphroaig whisky, and I promise to prepare a feast of haggis, champit tatties, and bashed neeps for them on my return.

  After the restaurant has closed, Francesco whisks me away on the back of his vintage Vespa. I feel like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Admittedly she sports a stylish headscarf, and I a helmet that makes me look a bit like a soldier in Nazi Germany, but in my mind I am her, hands clasped tightly around Gregory Peck.

  We check into The Parkway Hotel on Richmond Hill, where Francesco has booked a deluxe room with spectacular views over The Thames. We sit huddled on the balcony, my head nestled in to his chest, as we sip champagne and talk until the sun appears, casting an orangey glow over the meadows, the winding river, the moored boats, the trees.

  ‘Eh, why you look so sad, cara?’ he says, kissing the top of my head.

  ‘I wish I could freeze time, that’s all,’ I say, hastily turning my head away.

  Here I go again. Feeling so pathetic makes me cross. So much for my new-found, inner strength, eh? Get a grip, woman! Don’t spoil things by getting all serious on him. I’ve been serenely self-sufficient for ages now, and one romantic fling throws everything into chaos, exposing my needy, insecure side. But then this isn’t just a fling, is it? Talk about bad timing!

  Tenderly turning my face towards his, he looks deep into my eyes and whispers, ‘Ti amo, cara.’

  He kisses my hand, then just like Rhett Butler, he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me through to the bedroom.

  No one but Francesco has ever swept me up before. Nigel had a bad back and Greg, my previous boyfriend, had dodgy knees.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Doon Place

  ‘RIGHT, THAT’S YOU DONE,’ says Senga from hair and make-up, snapping the can of hairspray shut and removing the towel from around my shoulders. ‘Now pop along next door and see Bruce in wardrobe.’

  My bloodshot peepers blink several times under the harsh glare of the high-watt bulbs. No girl should ever have to subject her face to foundation and blusher before sunup. Not that I’m complaining – quite the opposite. Call it positive thinking, cosmic ordering, heaven-sent or just bloody good timing; four days’ all-expenses paid filming at the historic Arbermorie Castle is the perfect distraction to keep my mind off Francesco and the future.

  Bruce runs his stubby finger down the call sheet and ticks off my name.

  ‘Now, er … Emily, I see Miss MacFarlane as your typical, nineteen forties’ village spinster – disappointed by love, bitter, repressed, dowdy, frumpy …’

  Yep, okay, Bruce, we get the picture. Loud and clear.

  ‘She’s definitely a tweeds and brogues sort of wee woman,’ he continues, whipping the tape measure from his neck, and swiftly wrapping it around me. He bustles over to a rail of rather drab-looking garments and flicks through them, eventually pulling out a muddy-brown, herringbone-tweed suit.

  ‘Try this on for size,’ he says, pulling back the dressing room curtain.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror. It’s scary. I look like the sort of woman who lectures at the WI and knits toilet roll covers in her spare time. Bruce’s arm bursts through, brandishing a suspender belt, a pair of seamed stockings, and clompy, vintage shoes.

  ‘Sorry, dear, we’ve no size sevens – you’ll have to try and squeeze into these, I’m afraid.’

  I yank the curtain open.

  ‘Give us a twirl,’ he says, hands on hips, giving me the once-over with his beady eyes. He plonks a battered felt hat firmly on my head. ‘There we go! Frumpy spinster personified. The bus will meet you outside,’ he says, resuming his ironing.

  I am ON LOCATION! I have always wanted to say that. It sounds so glamorous and exciting, doesn’t it?

  I wipe the condensation from the minibus window with my moth-eaten glove, revealing a rather dreich car park, teeming with hordes of people, huddled round a mobile caff, sipping steaming liquid from polystyrene cups.

  A figure in a bright orange kagoul taps on the door and a hooded face peers round.

  ‘Hi, I’m Jules, the third assistant,’ she says breathlessly. ‘We’re running a bit behind schedule because of the rain, but we’ll try not to keep you waiting too long. Help yourself to breakfast.’

  ‘Round up the extras for the bicycle scene,’ crackles her walkie-talkie, and she disappears.

  My nervous nausea of earlier has now turned into pangs of hunger, so I make a beeline for the breakfast queue.

  Mmm. My taste buds tingle as the succulent bacon rashers sizzle in the pan. The chef thickly butters the soft, floury bap and slaps the bacon inside, adding a squirt of tomato ketchup, before pressing the top down with his palm. I reach up, like a kid in a sweet shop, and take it from him with both hands. I bite into it, and some of the melted butter, mixed with bacon fat, oozes down my chin. I am in paradise.

  ‘Emily, come with me,’ says Jules, suddenly reappearing at my side. ‘I’d like you to meet Oona, who plays Elspeth. You’re doing your scene with her, yeah?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, spitting crumbs everywhere. Jules strides off towards a huge trailer, and I teeter after her in my size five-and-a-halfs, cramming in the rest of my bacon roll as I strive to avoid the puddles.

  We climb the steps and Jules knocks on the door.

  ‘Come away in, dear,’ comes a familiar voice from inside.

  ‘Oona, this is Emily, who’s playing Miss MacFarlane,’ says Jules.

  ‘It’s an honour,’ I say, wiping my greasy fingers on my skirt and dropping a little curtsey. Aargh. Why in God’s name did I just do that? She’s not the Queen. But then Oona is a legend in Scotland; she’s been in Doon Place since it began in the Seventies, and is the only original member of the cast.

  Her character has been through two husbands, has four children, seven grandchildren, and survived a war and a chip pan fire.

  ‘You look frozen, dearie,’ she says warmly. ‘Let’s have a wee cuppa and run our lines until they’re ready for us.’

  Jules’s radio bursts into life again.

  ‘I’ll pop back when we’ve finished settin
g up,’ she says.

  Oona may look like your typical, sweet, old granny. But take away the grey wig and padding, and behind that Mrs-Doubtfire exterior, is a glamorous, go-getting sixty-something, who drives a Lamborghini, has a toy-boy husband, and is signed up to do the next series of Strictly Come Dancing.

  ‘Just ignore the camera, dear, and if you fluff your lines, so what? You can do it again. If you survived weekly rep, then this’ll be a doddle, so it will.’

  A make-up girl bustles in to re-do us and tuts as her eyes are drawn to a blob of ketchup on my cream blouse.

  ‘Okay, we’re ready for you,’ pants Jules, popping her head through the window of the trailer.

  * * *

  ‘Emily, my darling, can you hear me?’ booms Rob through a megaphone at the bottom of the hill.

  I give him the thumbs-up. ‘Good. Now, on action! I want you to cycle like you’re a woman on a mission – you’re bursting to tell Elspeth that you’ve just seen the village floozy coming out of Tam MacLeod’s house. Stop outside number nineteen, which is where the washing line is, okay? You then deliver your first line over the hedge. Clear?’

  ‘Cool,’ I casually cry, as if I’m an old hand at this, stomach churning noisily, like a cement mixer.

  ‘Quiet, please! Cameras rolling … sound running … aaand … action!’

  I swiftly pull my hat down so it’s secure, firmly grip the handlebars, take a deep breath, and I’m off.

  ‘CUT!’ roars Rob over the high-pitched squeal of brakes.

  One of the crew runs over and hurriedly applies some WD-40. He pushes the bike back up the hill, while I totter behind, aware of several sets of eyes upon me, impatiently waiting to start the scene again. I’m tempted to shout out, I’m not normally this slow at walking, but they didn’t have any shoes to fit me, but decide against it, as that would sound whingeing and pathetic. I tell myself to just get on with it, and mount the bike again.

  ‘Quiet, please! Cameras rolling … sound running … aaand … CUT! Plane overhead!’

  I abort take-off in the nick of time, saving myself from another embarrassing uphill stagger.

  We roll again, and as I rattle downhill, I rehearse my first line quickly in my head:

  Morning, Elspeth. I was on my way from the kirk, when I saw Jeannie MacLeod coming … aargh! … I was on my way from the kirk, when I saw Jeannie Frazer coming out of Tam MacLeod’s house … Morning, Elspeth … I apply the brakes, but slither past number nineteen, eventually coming to a halt outside number twenty-seven.

  ‘Cut!’

  Someone pokes about the brakes with a spanner, as the technical crew prepare for another take. A make-up lady appears from nowhere and attacks me with a powder puff, tucks in some stray hair, and readjusts my hat.

  ‘Right, can we crack on, folks? I’d like to get this done before the rain comes!’ yells Rob, twitching with impatience as he glances up at the storm clouds gathering in the distance.

  Huffing and puffing, I mount the bike again. Surely this time …

  ‘Quiet, please! Cameras rolling … sound running … aaand ACTION!’

  Morning, Elspeth. I was on my way from the kirk when I saw Jeannie Frazer coming out of Tam MacLeod’s house. Morning, Elspeth. I was on my waaaaaay …

  I’m applying the brakes, but nothing’s happening. I fly past a bewildered Elspeth and her line of washing, and am now freewheeling at dangerously high speed, heading for the huge light reflectors, lamps, crew, and extras at the end of the street. I swing my leg out and drag my foot along the ground, in an attempt to slow myself down, but end up parting company with the bike, falling flat on my face, tweed skirt over my head, stocking tops showing.

  ‘CUTTT!’

  I lift my grazed chin, just in time to see Rob smacking his forehead, throwing down his headphones, and storming off the set.

  Concerned crew and make-up ladies swarm round.

  ‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I lie, forcing myself to my feet, mortified by all the fuss, stockings and pride in shreds. My knees and chin are stinging like mad, and I’m on the brink of tears – more from embarrassment than pain. I am whisked away, cleaned up, and brought a cup of hot, sweet tea.

  ‘If you feel up to it, we’d like to try the scene again as the light’s starting to fade,’ says Jules with a sympathetic smile. ‘And don’t worry, we’ve tested the brakes and they’re fine now.’

  Poised for take-off, I shut my eyes for a moment, then take a deep breath. My chin is on fire, and my feet are throbbing, but goddammit, I will not be beaten by a wonky, old bone-shaker …

  As Rob looks through the lens, a hush descends over the smoking chimneys and plastic cobbles of Doon Place.

  ‘Yep, yep, not bad … check the gate … okay, everyone, thank you. It’s a wrap!’

  * * *

  Back at The Glenfoyle B&B that evening, I lie in the bath, the warm water soothing my aching feet and grazed knees. I blow away the foam from my downy legs. I stretch a dripping arm across for my toiletry bag, and ferret to the bottom in search of my Ladyshave. Flicking the razor back and forth, my taut face cracks into a wide grin as I replay today’s blooper in my mind, and wonder if one day it might be salvaged from the cutting room floor and reappear on It’ll Be Alright on the Night. At least I was wearing the 1940s’ version of Bridget Jones’s big pants and not anything too skimpy.

  One of the highlights of today was meeting Oona. Women like her are an inspiration: comfortable in their own skin, living life to the max, still taking on new challenges, and doing exactly what they want, and not according to some ageist rule book.

  There’s a ceilidh at the local pub tonight, and Senga from hair and make-up has invited me along. I think she feels a bit sorry for me because of the bicycle incident, and it being my first day and all.

  I haul myself out of the bath, hobble over to the bed, and look at tomorrow’s filming schedule. My pick-up time is 0630 for various crowd scenes. I wonder if I’ll be required to do the withered or the firm gaze. I practise both in the wardrobe mirror.

  I glance at the clock. All I want to do now is run a bath, pull on my jammies, order a takeaway, grab a quarter bottle of wine from the mini bar, and point the remote at the telly for the concluding part of the Taggart repeat. Last night’s episode ended with DS Jackie Reid in a deserted multi-storey car park. It’s late, and just as she’s about to drive off, a man in a balaclava pops up and, holding a gun to her head, says, ‘Don’t scream. Just do what I tell you …’

  I was almost certain that voice belonged to Ed from Three Sisters, but the end credits rolled by so fast I couldn’t catch the actor’s name. Now I’ll never know.

  The moment I open the door to leave, Mrs McKechnie pops out of her private sitting room.

  ‘All right, dearie? You’re awfy late the night. Can I fix you a wee bit o’ tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mrs McKechnie, I’ve got to fly, I’m going …’

  ‘Och, you cannae go out without something tae eat.’

  ‘No, really, I …’

  ‘I think the others are away oot already.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m late,’ I say pointedly, as I sidle towards the front door.

  ‘Tell you what – I’ll leave out some cheese and crackers and a wee slice of Dundee cake for your supper. My Ewan loved that cake. No wonder he was sae fat,’ she says, chuckling.

  I’ve reached the porch – only a few more steps and I’m home and dry.

  ‘I still go to visit his sister, Aggie, on Arran. She’s on her own tae. We were thinking of going to Spain next spring, but she’s worried her feet’ll puff up wi’ the flight.’

  I’ve now made it to the door.

  ‘It’s an awfy shame, but she cannae walk that well noo.’

  The phone rings.

  ‘Och, I bet that’s her. We’re telepathetic.’

  THANK YOU, AGGIE!

  * * *

  Sucking in a deep breath and my stomach, I enter the swing doors of The Tam O’Shanter pub. I duck and dive
my way past the maze of whirling revellers, in search of Senga et al.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, Emily! We’re over here!’

  I weave my way over to the large table, where the crew, some of the actors, and make-up and wardrobe girls are seated.

  Before I’ve a chance to sit down, Senga drags us all up to the dance floor to join in with Drops of Brandy. Admittedly I did a bit of Scottish country dancing at school, but being tall, had always to take the role of the man, so a fat lot of good that is to me now. Senga and the locals do their level best to steer us in the right direction, but we are hopeless, like dodgem cars, colliding with one another and causing multiple pile-ups. I’ve got a stitch in my side, but just when you think it’s all over, that diddley-diddley music has a nasty habit of going round and round and round again and again – and again.

  Finally it stops, and we stagger back to our table, gasping for air.

  ‘Everyone enjoying themselves?’ comes a gravelly Scottish burr behind me.

  I swivel round on my barstool.

  ‘Oh, everyone, this is Duncan, my bro’,’ says Senga breezily.

  ‘Please take your partners for The Gay Gordons!’ announces the caller.

  Duncan holds out his hand to me and says, ‘May I have the pleasure?’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ I pant in a silly, Scarlett-O’Hara tone of voice. Where the hell did that come from?

  Though not as manic as the last reel, there’s a twirly bit in the Gay Gordons, and by the end, I’m starting to feel dizzy and sick.

  ‘Are you okay? Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I wheeze, flicking a rogue strand of hair from my sticky forehead.

  Why don’t I just tell him the truth? Well, no, actually, I’ve got an excruciating pain in my chest, I’m seeing stars, and may well collapse in a heap at any moment. But no, I opt instead to be relentlessly pushed and pulled and flung hither and thither until I am rendered a gibbering wreck. I have no control over my legs and am minus one shoe, and yet weirdly, the music makes you want to ceilidh all night.

  The Duke of Perth, Strip the Willow, The Dashing White Sergeant, Drops of Brandy all merge into one, and suddenly it’s 12.30 and we’re all joining hands in a swirling, stamping circle. ‘“O ye’ll tak the high road and I’ll tak the low road …”’