MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  ‘What? Now hang on a minute,’ he said, letting the binoculars dangle from their leather cord around his neck. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea here.’

  ‘Have I, by God?’ The man hoisted the gun down from his shoulder.

  Lewis took a step backwards in alarm. ‘Yes. Look, I’m not doing any harm.’

  ‘No?’ The man snapped the gun together as he spoke. ‘That’s what they all say.’

  Good grief, he looked like one of the deranged mountain men in the old Burt Reynolds film, Deliverance. Lewis had to think of something – and think of it fast. ‘Steady on…um…Sir,’ he said. ‘Before you do anything hasty, let me introduce myself. I’m Lewis Trevelyan – from the film company – Blackwater Films.’ He held out his hand, and then withdrew it sheepishly, when it was pointedly ignored. ‘You must have heard of us,’ he said.

  ‘Nope.’ The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  ‘Oh. Oh that’s a pity. Well, you see, we’re filming in the area,’ he explained. ‘And I’m looking for a girl.’

  Lewis knew the moment he had said it that it was the wrong thing to say - the very wrong thing to say. What an idiot.

  ‘Clear off!’ the man bellowed, waving his gun at him. The dog was starting to growl and creep towards him on its belly, dark hackles raised.

  ‘If you’ll just let me explain…’

  Okay, maybe not. Lewis decided to cut his losses. The ominous click of a shotgun cartridge being slid home was the deciding factor – that and the way the man was staring at him, with a slightly maddened look in his eye.

  ‘We don’t want your sort round here,’ he growled.

  That much was bleeding apparent, anyway.

  Lewis backed away from him, one eye fixed on the dog that was looking almost as menacing as its owner. ‘It’s all been a misunderstanding, you know,’ he said, as he fumbled in his pocket for his car keys.

  ‘I said, clear off!’

  One didn’t argue with a loaded gun, he told himself firmly - a loaded gun, a vicious dog, and a deranged local, (who would have been perfect for a thriller he had just finished making). He clicked open the door of the red hatch back, and scrambled into the driving seat, locking the door firmly behind him.

  The notice, plastered over the front of his windscreen, informing him of the proper use of passing bays on country lanes, partially obscured his vision, but Lewis didn’t give a toss. The sooner he was out of here, the better. He slammed the car into gear, and lurched forwards, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle.

  In perpetual slow motion, he saw the blue car heading towards him – saw the dark haired girl at the wheel, and then saw the girl with blonde hair sitting beside her. She was laughing, her head tilted to one side, and her thick, glossy mane of hair tumbling freely over her shoulders. In the split second that their cars passed, he realised it was her. The very person he was trying to find.

  ‘Shit!’ He banged his foot down hard on the brakes. It really was her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. The car was disappearing round a bend in the road.

  Not so, the madman with the hunting rifle and the dog. He was standing by the side of the verge, the shotgun held across his stomach, and his legs planted apart like a gunslinger in an old Western movie.

  ‘Shit,’ Lewis said again. He didn’t have any other option but to drive on. A braver man might have turned the car round, and gone after her. Lewis might have been brave, but he wasn’t stupid. Not when he was looking down the barrel of a loaded shotgun, that is.

  The detour he was forced to take took him down endless country roads, with no obvious signposts, and no hope of doubling back on himself to follow the blue car. All he was doing was wasting precious time and petrol. He was also getting himself hopelessly lost.

  Burningstone – where the hell was that? He drew up by the village sign, and got out to remove the annoying piece of paper jammed under his windscreen wiper, (the one informing him not to park in passing bays on country lanes.) Well he wouldn’t be doing that again. In fact, he had no intention of going anywhere near the place again. Next time he would send Matthew – or James – or even the two of them together. That’s what he paid them for. Let them get blasted sky high by the local vigilante.

  He jabbed out a number on his mobile, and glanced up and down the street as the phone started to ring. The village was decidedly rural, with only a handful of houses, and no sign of life. ‘Hello? Lucy?’

  ‘Speaking. Is that you, Lewis?’

  A friendly voice - he breathed out slowly. ‘Yes. Hi. Lucy, I’m a bit lost. Are you still with the Fitzgeralds?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m almost finished. Where are you?’

  ‘Burningstone,’ he said. ‘Wherever that is. I haven’t got the map. It’s with Matthew and James.’

  ‘Burningstone. Hang on a minute.’

  He could hear her talking in muffled tones.

  ‘Lewis?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ he said. He had absolutely no intention of going anywhere – not without explicit and cast iron instructions. His petrol gauge was in the red, and he had no idea how much fuel he had left in the tank.

  ‘Apparently you’re not far from the main road,’ she said, having obviously discussed the matter with her host. ‘It’s about a mile through the village, and you want the first turning to the right.’

  ‘Can you ask if there’s a petrol station nearby?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  He glanced down at his watch as he waited. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  ‘Lewis?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘There’s one on the main road, about half a mile further on.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Lucy.’ He pocketed his mobile and climbed back into the car. Now what, he wondered? Fill up with petrol, and go looking for a blue sports car, or cut his losses, and head back to the hotel?

  In the end, he did a bit of both. With a full tank of petrol, and a newly purchased map from the shop on the garage forecourt, he spent some time cruising the country lanes, on the off chance that he might see the two girls, and be able to flag them down. (Though whether they would stop for a lone male in a red hatchback was another matter entirely).

  He couldn’t help wondering what it was about this girl that so intrigued him. She was incredibly beautiful, of course, but then so were several other girls on every casting agent’s list. He only had to pick up the phone, and he could have his choice of any one of them. Maybe it was because she seemed so unattainable, he thought. He was forever seeing her, but never quite getting to meet her.

  ‘Give it up, Lewis,’ Matthew told him, over a late business lunch – a very late business lunch, in the Red Fox. ‘No woman’s worth that much time and effort.’

  He was inclined to agree with him. Two hours he had spent, driving up and down country roads, and through little villages and hamlets (and that was after the embarrassing episode of being accused as a stalker), and all to no avail.

  ‘Matt’s right,’ James said. ‘You can take your pick of riders at the County Show. There’ll be dozens of worthy competitors there. Take a look at this programme.’ He handed him the brochure, which gave details of all the events. ‘See?’ he said, ‘there’s loads of show-jumping going on.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Lewis sighed. The trouble was, he’d never been very good at accepting second best, and this girl, he was sure, would outclass them all.

  Matthew stood behind him, peering at the pamphlet over his shoulder, as he supped from a pint of warm and robust beer. The landlord had recommended it to him. ‘It’s real ale, lad, and brewed in our local brewery. It’s well worth the extra expense.’ It was cheap, compared to London prices, and fairly palatable, too. Matthew took another mouthful just to make sure. ‘Why don’t we run our own event at the show,’ he suggested. ‘I can see it now - the Blackwater Films Show-jumping stakes.’

  Lewis darted him a look. That sounded interesting. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, well, let me see.’ Matthew thought fo
r a moment. ‘How about this – “Competitors need to be under thirty, blonde-haired, slim and female.”’

  Lucy pulled a face. ‘Bit sexist, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We’re talent scouting for a film, remember.’

  ‘Yeah,’ James agreed. ‘And there are plenty of other events for everyone else to enter. This could be an extra competition.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Lewis said. ‘No, I mean it, Matthew. It’s a great idea.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s absurd,’ sniffed Lucy.

  ‘I don’t,’ Lewis said. ‘I think it’s a bit of inspired thinking. Well done, Matt.’

  Luckily, the Chairman of the Showground committee thought so as well. (‘Splendid idea. That ought to bring the punters in. Bit of showbiz razzmatazz and all that.’) By early evening, and several phone calls later, the arrangements were all in hand. Not only did Lewis have a film to produce, with the entire organisation that that entailed (securing finances, hiring the crew, and finding locations for starters), but he was now responsible for running a show jumping competition – the appropriately re-named “Simon De Silva stakes”.

  ‘Sounds like something out of a burger bar,’ Lucy muttered sulkily, as she finished mopping up the last few morsels of strawberry gateaux from her plate. She still hadn’t come round to the idea of the competition, and a mouth-wateringly delicious dinner in the hotel restaurant had not improved her mood either. ‘Who’s financing it, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘We are.’ Lewis drained his glass of chilled wine, and motioned to the waitress to bring them another bottle.

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Hmm,’ he nodded. ‘Look on it as a pre-publicity exercise. We could even put details of it on a Web site. You know – like the Blair Witch project.’

  Lucy frowned.

  ‘The film made megabucks.’

  ‘Yes, but,’ she sniffed. ‘Anyway, Simon De Silva doesn’t need that much publicity. Anything he’s in is bound to be a success.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Lewis said, leaning to one side to allow the waitress to place a fresh bottle of wine in an ice bucket on the table. ‘Remember “Oxford Sunset”?’

  ‘Didn’t that go straight to video?’ Matthew said, topping up their glasses.

  Lewis nodded. ‘The critics hated it.’

  ‘So?’ Lucy said.

  Lewis grinned. ‘I’m only reminding you why we need good publicity.’

  ‘Any publicity,’ James added.

  Lucy pouted and began twirling a strand of curling red hair around her fingertips.

  ‘I take it we’re almost finished here,’ Matthew said.

  ‘I think so,’ Lewis confirmed. ‘Unless you’ve got something else you want to do? Got any more locations for me? Any last minute change of plans?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, I guess that’s it, then,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We need to leave first thing in the morning. I’ve got a meeting with one of the sponsors next week, and I need to see Miles. There are a few things I need to clarify with him about the shooting schedule.’ He drained his glass and set it back on the table. ‘Coffee, anyone?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘Right.’ He leaned back in his chair, feeling pleasantly satisfied. The dinner had been excellent, and the wine, a young Australian vintage, quite superb. With the arrangements for the show-jumping competition all in hand, he decided it was time he had some relaxation. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Anyone else fancy some fresh air?’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ Matthew groaned. ‘We’ve been tramping round that bloody showground all day. It goes on for miles.’

  ‘A slight exaggeration,’ Lucy said. ‘What he means is, they’re going to the Jazz Club tonight. This pair,’ she added, ‘have a pre-arranged assignation.’

  ‘You’re only jealous,’ James said.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ she muttered.

  ‘I take it that’s a “no”, then?’ Lewis sighed. ‘I don’t know. All this beautiful scenery, and it’s wasted on you lot.’ He picked up his jacket. ‘Don’t make a night of it guys. I’ll be knocking for you at eight o’clock. I want to make an early start in the morning.’

  ‘Especially if it’s going to take us four hours to find the M25,’ James sniggered.

  Lucy aimed a kick at him under the table with the pointed toe of her high-heeled shoe. Judging by his muttered grunt, she knew it had connected with some sensitive part of his anatomy. ‘Eight o’clock will be fine, Lewis,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘Because I won’t be the one nursing a hangover.’

  The air was crisp and refreshing after the smoky atmosphere of the pub. Lewis draped his leather jacket over one shoulder as he strolled through the village. It was a pretty little place, with a tiny church tucked down a narrow lane, a duck pond, complete with assorted ducks, and a couple of shops, now closed.

  He peered into the window of the post office. Several notices were taped to the glass with yellowing sticky tape, advertising everything from jumble sales to playgroup bazaars. The local Women’s institute was holding a produce sale, on the Friday of each month, and a tabby cat had gone missing from Fuller’s Close. (A faded photograph accompanied the latter, and the name “Whiskers” scrawled underneath it in childish handwriting.)

  ‘Evening.’

  Lewis glanced round, startled, but the speaker, an elderly man with a walking stick and a shaggy looking spaniel at his side, had already walked on.

  ‘Evening,’ he said.

  He couldn’t get used to the fact that most of the people he had come across in this area were prepared to exchange a few pleasantries with him – even complete strangers. It didn’t happen in London, or at least, not in his neck of the woods. There was a lot to be said for country living.

  He walked on past the village green, admiring the quaint and picturesque cottages that fronted it. Bet they cost a fortune. This place would be ideal for a period drama – something turn of the century, perhaps, with coaches and horses. Or maybe early Edwardian, with servants and gentry. He turned the corner and found himself heading towards the churchyard. “The Church of St Mary,” proclaimed the board at the arched wooden entrance. “Rector Jeffrey Green, The Vicarage, Church Lane”. Now this was something else entirely. The graveyard was beautiful. It was neat, tidy, and carefully tended. Fresh flowers lay on several of the graves. Not a weed or a faded, dying bloom was in evidence anywhere.

  Lewis wandered up to the heavy oak door of the church. It was locked, of course. He didn’t expect it to be anything else. Shame though – he would have liked to take a look inside.

  ‘Now then, Sir? Can I be of any assistance?’

  The man was clipping a privet hedge behind the church. His cloth cap was jammed well down on his head, and he wore a faded tweed jacket, and baggy brown cords. His teeth were remarkable for their absence, all bar one, which poked out like a tusk from beneath his bushy moustache.

  ‘Thanks, but no,’ Lewis said. ‘I was just having a look around.’

  It was almost nine o’clock at night, and this man was out trimming hedges. Unbelievable.

  ‘You’ll be a tourist, then?’ he said, in an accent that was pure Suffolk.

  ‘Hmm? Sort of,’ Lewis said who couldn’t be bothered to go into details.

  ‘You’ll be going to the Club, then?’

  ‘Club?’

  The man raised his cap from his forehead, and gave it a scratch. ‘Jazz Club,’ he said. ‘Down the road and round the corner a bit. That’s where all the young uns go.’

  Lewis supposed he should feel flattered. In comparison to this old boy, he probably was young. Not young enough, though, to feel like frequenting a club. It wasn’t his scene, either here, or in London.

  ‘Not me, mate,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Business to attend to,’ he added.

  ‘Pity,’ the man said, resuming
his hedge clipping. ‘They say it’s a good do.’

  Lewis smiled. Whether it was or it wasn’t, he was sure he’d hear all about it over breakfast the next day. ‘Think I’ll give it a miss,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Aye, well, goodnight.’

  Strolling back towards the hotel, Lewis paused to glance in the window of an antique shop. Most of the objects looked like junk – the sort of thing that could be picked up in any cheap second hand shop, such as odd bits of cutlery and decorative plates, silver serving platters and pieces of old lace. But there was a picture on the wall that caught his eye – a watercolour painting of the village green. Very nice. Lewis squinted closer to see if he could spot a price tag.