MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘You mean it’s our little secret.’

  The voices grew quieter, and the conversation faded as Ella strained to listen. It was obvious that something was going on – something they were trying to keep from her. And it had to be something important for Ursula to hit the gin bottle. But it can’t have been bad news. She hadn’t sounded unhappy – the total opposite, if that was possible. She had been remarkably cheerful.

  It was with a certain degree of apprehension that Ella undressed and got ready for bed. She didn’t like secrets – especially ones that she wasn’t supposed to know about. But she was equally determined not to lose any sleep over the matter. Whatever it was, she reasoned, she would find out soon enough. Vanessa and Caroline were the last people to be trusted to keep their mouths shut. And if they didn’t tell her, she was quite sure there would be someone else out there who would.

  Breakfast in the Johnson household was a rather subdued affair. Ursula was suffering from the after effects of half a bottle of gin, and by the look of Vanessa and Caroline, they had matched her measure for measure.

  Ella came back from feeding the horses to find the three of them sitting round the kitchen table, looking rather pained and delicate. The smell of burning toast filled the room. She kicked off her wellies by the back door, and padded across the stone flagged floor to the sink. ‘Anyone want a coffee?’ she said brightly, as she filled the kettle.

  Vanessa groaned.

  ‘Black, and strong,’ Ursula muttered.

  Caroline sighed, and shook her head.

  ‘Just the one, then,’ Ella said, reaching for the coffee jar. ‘Any post today?’

  Three pairs of eyes swung round and stared at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Post. Letters. I saw the postman as I was coming back from the yard.’

  Ursula breathed out steadily. ‘No. Well, nothing important,’ she said. ‘Why? Were you expecting something?’

  Ella shook her head as she poured hot water over the coffee and stirred the steaming mugs.

  Ursula was looking rather bleary-eyed, morose even, as she ladled a heaped spoonful of sugar into the proffered mug. ‘All I seem to get these days is junk mail,’ she muttered. ‘Nobody ever writes to me. Well, nobody interesting, anyway.’

  ‘I had a note from Mrs Whitten,’ Ella said. ‘She left it with Thomas. She wants to enrol all three of her children for the Pony Club Camp in August.’

  ‘Oh joy,’ Vanessa said. ‘Some more little brats to run riot round the place.’

  The Children’s camp in the summer was the highlight of the Pony Club’s calendar. The organisers descended en masse to Hollyfields, to stage gymkhanas, and lessons and fun events for their young members. The four acre paddock was turned into a campsite for the week, and hordes of excited children, accompanied by their, usually, badly behaved Thelwell style ponies, shrieked and giggled and cried their way through the programme of events.

  What was fun for the children was a nightmare for Vanessa, who couldn’t abide the little brats, and Caroline, who gagged at the sight of anyone who reminded her of herself, in her formative years.

  ‘I suppose they’ll want to use the bathroom at all hours of the day and night again,’ she groaned. The memory of grubby, mud stained children queuing for the one and only toilet was not something she wished to be reminded of.

  ‘Not if we get those portaloos installed in time,’ Ursula said. The summer camp was a good money-spinner for the stables. Like it or loathe it, the event would be going ahead.

  She heaped another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. ‘Um, Ella,’ she said, clearing her throat, and glancing slyly at her daughters. ‘Next weekend….’

  ‘What about it?’ Ella popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, and reached into the fridge for some butter and marmalade.

  ‘I know it’s, technically, your weekend off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering…’ She paused, and took a sip of her coffee. ‘You’re not doing anything special, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Ella glanced back at her. The three of them were staring at her with an expectant, almost hungry look on their faces. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to change it, if that’s all right with you?’

  Now she was seriously beginning to get worried. Ursula didn’t usually ask her permission if she wanted to make changes to the duty rosters. She normally went ahead and did it, and told her about it afterwards.

  ‘Perhaps you could have this weekend off instead,’ she said. ‘I know its short notice, but the girls and I have something planned.’

  ‘For next weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The toast popped up out of the toaster, and Ella rescued it before Wilson, the Great Dane, could snatch it from the work surface, and gobble it down – a habit he was fond of doing, if he could get away with it.

  ‘I suppose it’ll be all right,’ she said, patting the huge grey lump of a dog fondly, and tossing him a crust as way of consolation for his disappointment.

  Vanessa gave a small, smothered giggle, which drew her a withering glare from Ursula.

  ‘So you’ll be able to work all next weekend,’ she said, confirming what she had already said.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Ursula smiled. ‘Well, it’s the County Show, you see. I thought it would be a good idea if we took a few horses along – for publicity purposes. Vanessa and Caroline are going to ride in a couple of events, and I thought I would make an appearance – a public relations exercise, if you like.’

  ‘Hmm. Whatever.’ Ella buttered her toast, and crunched into it hungrily. One thing about these early mornings – they certainly gave her an appetite. She glanced up and caught Caroline’s queasy face. She appeared to have gone quite green.

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to go if I couldn’t leave you in charge,’ Ursula said. ‘These days it’s difficult to know who to trust to take care of things, so I’ll be relying on you, Ella.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve said, it’s not a problem.’

  Ursula beamed. It quite transformed her face.

  ‘Good. Good – well, that’s excellent – isn’t it girls?’

  Vanessa and Caroline nodded dutifully.

  Ella had the strangest inkling that something was going on, but if it meant she could have the weekend off, she didn’t care. After the hectic week she had had, trying to fit in Majesty as well as her other jobs, she was quite looking forward to a couple of days off.

  ‘It means I won’t be able to do the children’s ride tomorrow morning, though,’ she said. ‘Not if it’s my Saturday off.’

  Caroline’s face went a sicklier shade of green, as she caught her mother’s eager look. ‘Mother, I can’t,’ she groaned.

  ‘Course you can,’ Ursula insisted. ‘It’s only for one morning, after all. And you’ll do it if it means you’re free to ride at the Show next weekend.’

  This thought seemed to cheer Caroline up immensely (though she found it a bit unfair that Vanessa hadn’t been roped in to help her).

  Ella munched the last mouthful of her toast, and then carried the plate over to the sink to wash up.

  ‘You can leave those, if you like,’ Ursula said. ‘You go and get on with your jobs round the yard. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you can finish for the weekend.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, genuinely pleased. It was unlike her stepmother to want to give her any time off at all, let alone telling her to finish early, but she wasn’t going to argue with her.

  She slipped her feet back into her boots, and picked up her jacket, before heading out, in blissful ignorance, to the stable block.

  Back in the kitchen, Ursula was beaming proudly at her two girls. ‘Done it,’ she said, ‘and she doesn’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘She’ll find out, ‘ Vanessa said, reading the heavily embossed and personal invitation card, for abo
ut the hundredth time.

  “The Blackwater Film Company is delighted to invite you to take part in the Simon De Silva Show-jumping Stakes. The winner of this prestigious event will be featured in the action film, ‘No Turning Back,’ featuring Simon De Silva. Short-listed candidates will be introduced personally to Mr De Silva, in the Keynes and Bain hospitality marquee. Please read the attached conditions of entry before applying. Names to be submitted to the competition secretary, care of the County Showground, by the morning of the event.”

  ‘So what if she does?’ Caroline said. ‘She’s agreed to work next weekend. You heard what Mother said? She won’t go back on her word.’

  ‘No,’ Ursula said, smiling. ‘That’s something Ella would never do.’

  Flattery and persuasion had succeeded, as she had known it surely would.

  ‘We’d better start thinking about what you’re going to wear, girls. We want it to be something special – something that will make you stand out from the crowd. I think I’ll give that saddler over at Millhouse a ring.’

  And sod the expense – the bank would have to wait a bit longer for its money. It could afford to. Ursula couldn’t.

  Chapter Nine

  Filming of the latest Simon De Silva movie, ‘No Turning Back’, was making steady progress. A good proportion of the location work had been completed, and most of the studio scenes in London had been shot.

  Miles Davison, the director – a fat little man in a tweed jacket and ill fitting trousers, strutted across the cluttered studio floor clutching a clip board, and waving directions to the lighting and camera crews.

  ‘Yes, over there – to the right – no, the right. I want the shot coming from behind the door.’

  ‘Everything okay, Miles?’

  Blood dripped from the gash on Simon De Silva’s forehead. A livid red mark above his right cheekbone showed where a bruise was starting to form.

  ‘Simon!’ Miles chuckled gleefully, and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ready to give it another go?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Great.’ He waved his clipboard in the air. ‘Listen everyone. We’re starting this shot again,’ he called.

  ‘Places please,’ came a voice from behind one of the sound monitors.

  Simon sat himself down on the corner of a white Formica-topped table, and clutched a stained and damp cloth to his face. A woman in a nurse’s uniform was leaning over him, poised and ready to bandage the cut on his arm.

  ‘Ready folks?’

  Simon winked at his co-star.

  ‘And – action.’

  The woman’s hands worked quickly and efficiently, winding the strip of gauze around his wrist. She glanced back at the closed door. ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘I don’t intend to.’ He flexed his fingers, as if testing to see if they were still intact.

  The woman straightened up, and pressed a clean gauze pad over the cut on his temple. ‘Any idea how they found you?’ she asked.

  His hand closed over her wrist, and she gasped as he tugged her against his chest. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not yet.’

  He kissed her, long and hard, before releasing her with a reluctant sigh. ‘Watch my back, Tanya,’ he said, as he flicked the metal catch on the window.

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘Nearly always.’ He pushed open the window, and scrambled onto the sill. A roguish grin transformed his rugged features. ‘You were cutting it a bit fine this time, my love. Don’t leave it so late in future.’ He glanced from one side to the other, and then readied himself to jump. ‘See you in Kensington.’

  The girl released her hair from its tightly pinned knot and shook it free. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.

  ‘Cut!’

  Miles Davidson clapped loudly, as Simon jumped back into the studio, and took a playful bow in front of the assembled camera crew and sound people.

  ‘I think that’s what they call “a wrap”,’ he said. ‘Well done Simon, and well done Molly. Right, folks.’ He turned to the crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the take. ‘That’s it. Show’s over. You can go now, but I want you all back here at seven on Monday – understand. Seven o’clock – am. That means morning, you lot. I don’t want to see anyone crawling in at mid-day.’

  The technicians were dismantling the lights, and moving furniture. Simon took a long cool drink from a bottle of chilled water, and splashed some of it over his face and hands. One of the make-up girls was attempting to wipe away the smears of fake blood from his forehead with a piece of cotton wool.

  ‘It’s okay, I can do that,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He nodded, and took it from her.

  ‘Simon, my man.’ Miles ambled towards him with a genial grin on his face.

  ‘What?’ he said, wiping his forehead with the damp piece of padding?

  ‘Don’t look so suspicious,’ he said. ‘It’s about the riding scene. Thanks, Molly – yes, I’ll see you on Monday – sorry sweetie, but we do need to start shooting first thing.’

  ‘Bye, Moll,’ Simon said, giving his co-star a wave. ‘Well,’ he said, after a considerable pause, when it seemed as if Miles had forgotten he had started up the conversation.

  ‘Well, what? Oh.’ Realisation suddenly dawned. ‘The riding scene.’

  Simon gritted his teeth. ‘Yes?’

  Miles looked worried. ‘There isn’t a problem, is there, Simon? I mean, I take it you can ride?’

  ‘Um, sort of.’

  ‘What?’ Miles bushy eyebrows lowered a fraction.

  ‘Well, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘How long?’

  Simon took another swig from the water bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Do donkeys on Blackpool beach count?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Miles spluttered.

  ‘Come on, Miles. It can’t be that hard. Can it?’

  ‘We’re talking galloping horses, here,’ he groaned. ‘Not piddling little donkeys on a pleasure beach.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a few lessons,’ Simon said agreeably.

  Miles shook his head in despair. ‘We’re shooting in a week,’ he groaned. ‘Lewis has got us the backing of the County Agricultural Show. We,’ he said, producing a folded leaflet from his inside jacket pocket, ‘or at least, you,’ (He pointed to Simon’s name in bold heading on the top of the glossy flyer) ‘are holding our own show jumping competition as part of the programme of events. The winner will be featured in the film. Trevelyan’s team thought that one up,’ he added. ‘They’re after some show jumper they’ve seen, but can’t quite pin down. Anyway,’ he said, folding up the leaflet and stuffing it back into his pocket. ‘It’s quite a plus as far as I’m concerned. It means that any footage we include will be real live action, as opposed to the staged variety. Invitations have been sent to every equestrian business in the area, and the ad has gone into all the local papers, so we’re expecting a lot of talent. And,’ he added, ‘I am reliably informed that flyers have gone into every shop window for miles around. And now you tell me you can’t ride.’ He sighed and gave a helpless shrug. ‘Now you tell me.’

  Simon drained the last few mouthfuls of chilled water from the bottle. ‘It’s not a problem, Miles,’ he said calmly.

  ‘You’re damn right it isn’t. Because I’m going to get some proper riders in.’

  ‘No way,’ he said. ‘You know the score, Miles. I do my own stunts.’

  The director shook his head wearily. ‘Quite frankly, Simon. I’d like you to survive this film. I do have other projects in mind for you. Let me talk it over with Lewis.’

  ‘Fine.’ He shrugged. ‘But I won’t change my mind.’

  Miles reached for his cell phone. Donkeys on Blackpool beach – Hah! Was the man insane? The scene asked for him to leap from the first aid building, sprint across the arena, and vault onto the nearest horse, before galloping into the distance. Sure, they could have a stunt rider for the final shots, but he wanted to get a few cl
ose ups. Not of a novice rider on a placid animal, but of the hero on a supremely fit and spirited horse. A handful of riding lessons was hardly going to achieve that.

  ‘Jesus!’ Lewis swore, as he listened to Miles tirade on the other end of the phone. ‘Why didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell you?’ Miles said. ‘You sent him the script. He must have known what was expected of him.’

  ‘He did,’ Lewis said, thinking back. (It had been a long time ago.) ‘Yes, I’m sure he did. And if I recall, he didn’t make any negative comments.’