MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘It’s also for living,’ Kate said, as she lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke over their heads.

  ‘Hark at the chain smoker,’ Gillian muttered, coughing loudly, and flapping her hands in front of her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kate murmured, turning her head away.

  ‘Look, I know you mean well,’ Ella said, ‘but I’m okay. Really I am. It’s sweet of you to be concerned about me, but I’m happy as I am.’

  Kate frowned at her, obviously not convinced.

  ‘Besides which, I must be the only one of you who hasn’t heard of Simon De Silva, so it’s unlikely that I’d harbour any great ambitions to want to star in a film with him. But if that’s what Vanessa wants to do, then fine – she can go for it. I won’t stop her.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Kate snorted, fumbling in her bag for her purse. ‘Thomas, be a love, and go to the bar for me. I think we all need another drink.’

  ‘I’m being realistic,’ Ella said. ‘You know I am.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Gillian muttered.

  ‘It’s perfectly simple. If Vanessa gets the part, Ursula will be happy. If she’s happy, then I’m happy. End of story.’

  ‘And you might still get to meet Simon,’ Becky said, with a hopeful look on her face. She’d never met anybody before who knew somebody famous.

  ‘Exactly,’ Ella said, with a smile. Though whether she would recognise him or not was another matter entirely.

  Thomas handed over the money at the crowded bar, and carried a tray of drinks back to the table.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ Ella said.

  ‘No. I’m away off home now. One’s my limit when there’s work to be done in the morning.’

  And by God, was there work to be done.

  He hitched his jacket collar up against the driving drizzly rain that was sweeping down from the hills. The lights from the pub window spilled onto the pavement, as he walked outside, and glanced up the street. The phone box was outside the post office. If it was empty, it was more than likely to have been vandalised. There was only one way to find out. Thomas limped his way along the pavement, his fingers fumbling for loose change as he did so.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he muttered, as he cranked open the door. One of the last remaining red telephone boxes in the country, and it had been used as an opportune urinal. It smelled to high heaven. Condensation and numerous trickles of water ran down the glass panes – such a charming combination. He kicked a crumpled beer can and the remains of a chip supper to one side.

  The number was written on a piece of paper stuffed down the inside zip of his wallet. He smoothed it out and stared at it thoughtfully. Then he picked up the receiver, jabbed out the numbers, and waited patiently, as somewhere on the end of the line, a telephone started to ring.

  Chapter Six

  The following morning saw the team from Blackwater Films gathering to discuss the day’s agenda in the dining room of the Red Fox Hotel.

  Breakfast had been laid out on an open styled buffet table at one end of the room, and James was heaping his plate up with bacon, sausages, scrambled egg, mushrooms, hash browns – in fact everything on offer, until he had a veritable mountain of heart-attack inducing food on his plate.

  ‘Steady on, James,’ Lewis muttered, selecting a more modest portion of toast and scrambled egg for himself. ‘They’ll think we don’t feed you.’

  ‘He’s such a pig,’ Lucy said, pouring herself a glass of fresh orange juice.

  ‘Only getting my money’s worth,’ James said. ‘Hey, Matthew.’ He waved at one of the silver covered serving platters. ‘Over there – the bacon’s really crispy.’

  ‘Seen it,’ Matthew said, waving a fork at him. ‘Have you tried those sausages?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Lewis groaned, carrying his plate over to a table in front of the window. ‘Don’t they ever think about anything else?’

  Lucy smiled, as she sat down beside him. She was wearing a neat fitting sea blue trouser suit, with a cream blouse, and matching high-heeled shoes. ‘Hmm, possibly sex,’ she whispered, ‘but not at meal times.’ She was unpeeling a rather large, ripe banana as she spoke.

  Lewis spluttered helplessly into his cup of black coffee.

  ‘So,’ she said, seemingly oblivious to his amusement. ‘What’s the plans for today?’

  ‘I want you to see Mr Fitzgerald again,’ he said, trying hard to keep a straight face. ‘See if you can pin him down to times and places at the Show. Matt and James are going to look over a couple more locations for me, and I,’ he added, taking a mouthful of coffee, ‘will be going back to the stables.’

  ‘You’re doing what?’ James said, dumping his over-loaded plate onto the table and stabbing his fork into a succulent, plump sausage before it rolled onto the starched white tablecloth.

  ‘Going back to the Johnson place,’ he said.

  ‘Again?’ James sat down and pulled up his chair. ‘But I thought you’d decided to use the Showground for the shoot.’

  ‘He’s after his mystery blonde,’ Matthew chuckled. ‘Any tea in that pot, Luce, or shall I order us a fresh one?’

  Lucy lifted the lid and peered inside. ‘Better get fresh,’ she said. ‘This one’s a bit stewed.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ James said, grinning. ‘I think you secretly enjoy seeing that Ursula woman. Mature, single lady, wealthy, loads of dosh….’

  Lewis gave him an exasperated glare. ‘For your information, I have no intention of seeing “that Ursula woman”, as you so nicely put it. I’m going to go there unannounced, and have a look around on my own.’

  ‘Good thinking, boss.’ Matthew tapped the side of his nose. ‘You go case out the joint.’ His voice had developed a heavy, American twang.

  ‘Please!’ Lewis groaned.

  ‘No, I think you’re right,’ Lucy said. ‘You’ll probably find out more by having a wander round by yourself, than having her influencing who and what you see.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Lewis waved the waitress over. ‘Could we have another pot of tea, and another coffee, here, please?’

  ‘So what if you don’t find her?’ James asked, through a mouthful of fried bread. ‘Got any other thoughts up your sleeve?’

  ‘Not so far,’ he said. ‘But I’ll think of something.’ Of that much he was certain. Admitting defeat was not going to be an option. He would find that girl if it were the last thing he did. But finding her was only the start of the matter. Next, he would have to persuade her to take part in the film. For all he knew she might be painfully shy, or tongue-tied, or embarrassed. Fame wasn’t necessarily everyone’s cup of tea, but that was something he could work on. It was tracking her down that was his main problem.

  With that aim in mind, he left the hotel soon after breakfast, in a car hired from a local company. James and Matthew had already arranged to take his car on another location search, dropping Lucy off at the Fitzgerald house on the way, so it made sense for him to hire a car for the day.

  The small red hatchback was ideal for the narrow, tree-shaded lanes with all their twists and turns. The fact that he was beginning to feel like a rally driver, turning the wheel first one way, and then the other in rapid succession, (and enjoying the challenge immensely), made him wonder if he had missed his vocation in life.

  If anyone had told him, ten years previously, that he would be an independent producer of a small, but successful film company, he would have thought they were raving mad. His introduction to drama had come from a stint with the University amateur theatrical society. A girlfriend of the time had persuaded him to join, and as it meant he got to see more of her by going than if he didn’t, he willingly went along to rehearsals.

  His fascination for the whole production business stemmed from those heady student days. A degree in accountancy and business management was followed by a year doing a Media Studies course at the same University. (Which didn’t please his parents, who thought he should be
getting a ‘real’ job, instead of messing about “making movies”).

  Their attitude changed somewhat when his first film – a half hour 35mm thriller, (made as part of his course) attracted the attention of a wealthy sponsor, who offered to fund his next film. This subsequently won rave reviews at the London International Film festival, and prompted a spate of calls offering him some lucrative commissions.

  A spell in advertising further honed his skills for producing gritty and realistic drama, and his eye for talent, and knowledge of current market trends, meant that most of his projects were successful. In five years he had gained a reputation some producers had strived most of their lives for, and still hadn’t managed to achieve.

  Luck didn’t come into it. Lewis worked hard for his success. He had a shrewd business mind, combined with the ability to deal with people from all walks of life, be they temperamental actors, or hard hitting executives.

  He also had, as James was forever pointing out to people, the strength of character to act on his hunches, even if everyone else dismissed his ideas as unworkable.

  This blonde girl, for instance - he knew, the moment he had heard her laughing, and seen her leading the horse across the field, that she was exactly what he was looking for. She had something about her – something he couldn’t put into words, but something that was unique and special only to her. He had to find her. There were no two ways about it. He had to find her.

  The car bounced over the grass verge as he hit the corner too soon, and he braked sharply to avoid hitting the trunk of a tree. So much for his rally driving skills. He eased his foot off the accelerator slightly, and coasted down the lane.

  Hollyfield Stables appeared to the right of him, through a gap in the hedge. He slowed the car to a gentle crawl as he passed the large billboard and the sign pointing to the entrance. Several cars were parked at the end of the long gravel drive. A horsebox and a couple of four-wheel drive vehicles were on the drive itself.

  Lewis drove past the entrance and found a place to stop in what was supposedly a passing bay. Since he presumed traffic along that particular stretch of road was few and far between, he didn’t suppose anyone would mind if he left his car there for a few moments.

  That was his first mistake.

  Taking a pair of binoculars with him was his second one.

  Bethany Boggis was not the most elegant of riders. Ursula had likened her to a beached whale, when she had tumbled off her pony, Munchkin, at the gymkhana the previous week, and lain on the ground bawling. The fact that she wasn’t hurt was neither here nor there. She was far too heavy, she said, for the pony she was riding. It was no wonder that poor Munchkin had overbalanced.

  Her mother insisted it was puppy fat that she would grow out of given time, but Ursula begged to differ.

  ‘She’s too big for her pony, Mrs Boggis. It’s time you started thinking of a replacement.’

  ‘But Bethany loves her little Munchkin.’

  ‘Of course she does,’ Ursula soothed. ‘And it’s hard to let go, I know. But for the pony’s sake, she needs to move on. We’ve got a lovely little Welsh Cob which might suit her,’ she added. The horse was stubborn, but incredibly strong.

  It needed to be, she thought, studying the rather obese child with a dispassionate stare. ‘Why don’t we forget about Munchkin for today,’ she suggested, ‘and I’ll let you ride something else for a change?’

  ‘Don’t want to ride anyfink else,’ Bethany sniffed.

  ‘I know, darling,’ Mrs Boggis sighed, raising her eyes in a helpless gesture at Ursula, as if expecting her to perform miracles or something.

  Shrink the child or stretch the pony, perhaps? Ursula smiled. ‘You could always keep Munchkin here and buy another horse to ride,’ she suggested. ‘That’s what some of my other clients have done.’

  It was a lie, but the thought of double livery charges made it a wonderful idea, even if she said so herself.

  Mrs Boggis looked doubtful.

  ‘It helps ease the pain of parting,’ Ursula added knowledgeably. ‘And it doesn’t have to be for long.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Only until the child gets to bond with her new horse.’

  ‘Does that mean I can have two ponies?’ Bethany said, looking a lot more cheerful at this suggestion and a bit sneaky too.

  ‘Possibly,’ her mother said, frantically adding up the figures in her head, and wondering what her husband, Robert, would have to say on the matter.

  ‘And in the meantime, you can try out Minnie,’ Ursula said, ‘who just happens to be for sale. Her owner is giving up on horses. Pregnant,’ she added as an aside to Bethany’s mother.

  The stout woman’s mouth opened into a silent ‘oh’ of understanding.

  ‘Kelly. Can you tack up Minnie, please,’ Ursula said. Strike while the iron was hot – that was her motto. Bethany was skipping across the yard, no doubt heartened by the thought of having two ponies. Her mother, however, was looking distinctly uncertain about the whole thing. Ursula planned to have the child up and riding before she got the chance to change her mind.

  Minnie, the Welsh cob, was a sturdy looking horse with a thick black mane and tail, and a blaze of white down the centre of its dark face. She had a kind eye, and a tendency for laziness, or stubbornness, depending on how one viewed the matter. She was, however, the ideal horse for a child graduating from ponies.

  Bethany seemed thrilled at the prospect of owning her as well as Munchkin.

  ‘Oh Mummy, Mummy, she’s so sweet,’ she said, jumping up and down in excitement as Kelly saddled her up.

  It wasn’t quite how Mrs Boggis would have put it. She wasn’t really a horsey person. Still, she seemed placid enough, and that was the main thing. She risked giving it a tentative pat on the neck.

  ‘Where can I ride her?’ Bethany said, as she scrambled up on to the mounting block, and waited for Kelly to lead the horse alongside her. ‘Can I take her to the four acre field?’

  ‘If you like,’ Ursula said. ‘Kelly will go with you, won’t you Kelly?’

  The young stable-girl nodded, as she clipped a lead rope on to the horse’s bridle.

  ‘I don’t need that,’ Bethany said, as she flopped into the saddle. ‘I’ve been riding Munchkin for ages.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Ursula said shrewdly. The last thing she wanted was the horse bombing across the paddock before the girl had got used to her. ‘Off you go, and don’t worry, Bethany. Mummy and I will be watching you from here.’

  They weren’t the only ones watching her.

  Lewis had found a suitable vantage point behind an overgrown hawthorn hedge at the side of the road. Through a gap in the thicket he could see the vast expanse of paddocks and exercise areas, and a good proportion of the cross-country course, as it wound its way through the distant trees.

  The ground was sodden with overnight rain, and he trod carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. Expensive Italian leather loafers were not the things to be wearing at a time like this. Still, if he could track down the girl it would be worth the inconvenience of ruining a decent pair of shoes.

  He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Excellent! He could see the sand school and the entrance to the yard as well. He scanned backwards and forwards, taking in all that was going on. A class lesson was in progress in the arena, and in one of the fields, he could make out some youngsters riding a course of coloured poles. His view zoomed in on the person riding the sturdy bay cob. Hmm – it looked like a child, but who was that leading the horse? He twiddled with the focus. Yep – it was a child riding, but there was definitely someone leading. A young girl – could have blonde hair. It was difficult to see when she was wearing that hat…

  ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’

  Lewis jumped at the sound of the gruff and rather belligerent voice that came from just behind him. The binoculars bashed into his eye sockets, as he staggered forwards, his foot landing in a squishy lump of something soft and foul smelling.

 
‘I know your type. Bloody pervert!’

  He turned round to find that his accuser was an angry looking man with the ruddiest face he had ever seen. He was wearing a muddy green-waxed jacket and stout walking boots. In one hand he carried a shotgun, and in the other was a walking stick, which he thumped into the ground by his feet. A black and white collie was lying inches away from him, its black muzzle resting on a pair of outstretched paws.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lewis said, a trifle disconcerted. This had all the appearances of turning nasty if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘You will be,’ the man growled.