MClarke - Green Wellies and Wax Jackets

by Green Wellies

  ‘Right,’ Miles said smugly. ‘So, you sort it’

  Thanks very much, Lewis thought, replacing the receiver with a scowl. That was all he needed. A novice rider as the hero in a scene that was absolutely crucial to the plot. Brilliant – bloody brilliant.

  ‘Problems?’ James said.

  ‘Nothing insurmountable,’ he said. (Or so he hoped).

  The day was not exactly going according to plan. His business meeting with one of the film’s sponsors had been difficult, to say the least. Since money ruled most aspects of film-making, unless one was hugely talented and wealthy in one’s own right, the support of sponsors was crucial to a film’s success.

  ‘Are Keynes and Bain going to pull out?’ Matthew asked.

  They were seated in Lewis’ office, where he had gathered the other three members of his production team together to discuss the slight hitch in plans.

  ‘No – it’s too late for that now. Let’s just say they’ve got a case of the jitters.’

  ‘Which you’ve managed to put right. Right?’ Matthew said.

  ‘Well, sort of.’ Lewis uncorked a bottle of Chilean wine, provided for by Lucy, this time, and poured it into their glasses. ‘I’ve told them about the planned publicity at the County Show, and they’ve agreed to foot the bill for the hospitality suite – as long as their name gets a mention, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ James raised his glass to him.

  ‘But then there’s the slight problem that we haven’t got a show-jumper yet.’

  ‘So?’ Matthew looked puzzled. ‘You’ve said yourself; there’ll be plenty of talent at the Show.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lewis agreed. ‘But we want unknown talent, and I’ve been reliably informed that some of the big names in the horse world will be taking part.’

  ‘Not in the Simon De Silva Stakes, surely,’ Lucy sniggered.

  Lewis gave her a pained glare.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ James said. ‘I don’t understand. Why has it got to be unknown talent? Loads of sportsmen and women have had cameo roles as themselves in films. From racing drivers to footballers – they’ve all done it.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘You’re still after that girl,’ Matthew said, a knowing glint in his eye. ‘That’s why you’re on about finding unknown talent. You think if she was well known, you’d recognise her.’

  Lewis frowned. He was nearer to the truth than he cared to admit. ‘What do I know about show-jumping,’ he muttered. ‘She could have won dozens of things, and I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Exactly,’ James said. ‘And neither will Jo-public.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He conceded that they were probably right

  ‘So when are we going back?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Next week.’ Lucy flipped through her filofax. ‘I’ve booked us into the same hotel, and the mobile film unit will be up there from Thursday.’

  ‘Any problems in that direction?’

  ‘No, everything’s arranged,’ she said. ‘And Simon’s free to fit in with whatever we decide.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Lewis said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Because I’ve got plans for that young man.’

  Lucy tilted her head quizzically to one side. ‘Do I need to make a note of them here?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I do want you to find out how much an intensive course of riding lessons is going to cost.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ Matthew spluttered. ‘He can’t ride?’

  ‘Not yet he can’t.’ Lewis said, leaning over to top up their glasses. ‘But I’m working on it.’ He drained the last few drops from the bottle into his own glass. ‘So now all we need is for this girl to show up, and we’re sorted.’

  ‘As easy as that, eh?’ James raised his glass, and winked at him.

  ‘Not quite,’ Matthew said. ‘She’s got to win the competition yet.’

  Lewis gave him a thoughtful look.

  ‘It is part of the publicity. You said the winner would get a part in the film,’ he said. ‘If she turns up and doesn’t win, I presume that’s tough luck.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Lewis said. He hadn’t bargained for that eventuality.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Lucy said.

  ‘It means,’ he murmured, draining his glass, ‘That we’ll see.’ And that was all he intended to say on the matter.

  With no further business to discuss, the meeting ended, as it usually did, with a resume of the plans for the next few days, and then they all adjourned to a restaurant in the main street for dinner.

  Lewis declined the invitation to continue the evening’s festivities by going to a nightclub. Instead, he left the three of them in a pub, and took a taxi back to his flat on his own.

  The view from the apartment window was stunning. The lights along the Embankment glistened on the murky water of the Thames. A floating barge, with music, and lights flashing drifted downstream, the occupants enjoying an expensive, and unique evening pleasure cruise.

  Lewis stood by the fourth floor window, his fingers holding the stem of a wine glass, watching the evening turning slowly into night over London. The stream of traffic along the Embankment had eased. It never ceased entirely. People strolled along the length of the riverside, pausing, and watching, seemingly engrossed in their surroundings, or marching steadily and purposefully as they went about their business. A jogger ran by, fluorescent stickers glinting on the back of his shoes. A late night dog walker stooped to pick up what his pet had deposited (in the plastic bag he, no doubt, always carried). Then held his offering at arm’s length, as he searched for the nearest poop scoop bin.

  Lewis drew back from the window, hesitated for a moment, and then drew the blinds. The light from the Art Deco lamp in the corner spilled onto the polished wood floor. The cream leather sofa, glass topped table, and state of the art sound system indicated that the current occupant had stylish taste. Not his taste, Lewis thought. The décor was described as ‘minimalist.’ Or at least, that’s what it said in the agency brochure. He just considered it bare.

  ‘You’re only renting it,’ Matthew told him. ‘What does it matter what it looks like?’

  ‘It’s not exactly home,’ he complained. Home, for Lewis - his real home, that is (though he spent precious little time there), was in the heart of the Yorkshire Moors. He had invested in an old farmhouse, where he could enjoy splendid isolation in comfortable, cluttered surroundings, and a decent pint in the village local, where the regulars ignored his glorified status, and treated him as one of them.

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to come and stay at my place if you’re feeling lonely.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he said. ‘I like my own space.’

  It was true. Despite being associated with actors and the tabloid press for most of his adult life, Lewis had never felt comfortable with the trappings of fame. He hated the glitzy parties he was expected to attend – the social gatherings of the glitterati.

  As a film producer renowned for working with some of the country’s most talented actors, he sometimes received more attention than he felt was justified. The fact that it seemed to make him public property was something he could not easily come to terms with. He would shun publicity at all costs if it concerned his private life, though he was more than happy to talk about his work.

  ‘People want to know who you are, Lewis,’ one newspaper journalist told him. ‘What makes you tick? Christ, they even want to know what you eat for breakfast.’

  ‘Cereal, like everyone else,’ he muttered.

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  At least here, in the apartment, with its glorious view over the Thames, he could watch the world go by and not have to worry about the flashing of cameras, and the lurking paparazzi. The roller coaster ride of fame was not for the faint-hearted. Sometimes he, like everyone else, needed to take time out for himself.

  He swallowed the last mouthful of wine in his glass, and padded through to
the luxuriously designed, Swedish style kitchen, to get himself a refill.

  As he passed the huge, flat screen television in the corner of the lounge, his attention was diverted by the mention of, “Robert Johnson, riding Fools Gold…”

  ‘What?’

  He clicked the sound up on the screen. He hadn’t been watching the programme – it was some cable channel, and he had only put it on to drown out the awful emptiness of his barren (but apparently stylish) apartment.

  ‘It’s five years since Robert Johnson was killed in a car crash,’ came the polished tone of the programme presenter. ‘And his record for completing the course in the fastest time has never been beaten until this week, when Peter Van Dryden, riding Wings of a Dove…’

  ‘Robert Johnson?’ Lewis peered at the screen. The footage showed the legendary show-jumper flying round the course on a magnificent bay horse with a flaxen mane and tail, and then changed to that of the current champion, Peter Van Dryden, a thirty one year old from Basel, in Switzerland.

  ‘I always wanted to beat Robert’s time,’ the Swiss, was saying, in broken, and heavily accented English. ‘He was a great rider. A great man.’

  The camera zoomed in on Robert Johnson’s face. Lewis was intrigued. This was a picture of a handsome and talented rider. What the hell did he see in someone like Ursula? Surely she hadn’t changed that much in five years. And yet, the woman he had seen at Hollyfield stables looked much older than he would have imagined Robert Johnson’s wife to be – even bearing in mind the obvious grief and trauma she had been through. Perhaps that’s what was meant by the saying, “love is blind”.

  Not that he had much to compare with. His love life had taken a definite nosedive recently. He was tired of shallow fawning females, only interested in being with Lewis Trevelyan, the producer, and not Lewis Trevelyan, the man.

  Serena had been the last in a long line of adoring females, who were only interested in getting their picture printed in the gossip pages of the latest celebrity magazine. When he discovered that she had given an interview to ‘The Latest’ – a no holds barred, spill the beans type of interview (most of it lies, because he really wasn’t that interesting) it signalled the end of their relationship.

  Serena came out of the encounter rather well – several thousand pounds richer, in fact. But it made him even more determined to keep his private life private – hence the lonely apartment on the fourth floor of this prestigious block of flats overlooking the Thames.

  He watched the television footage of the show jumping with an expression akin to admiration and disbelief on his face. Some of the jumps were huge – taller than a normal man, and yet both horse and rider seemed to sail effortlessly over them. That took skill, he decided, swigging off another glass of wine – and guts of steel. He couldn’t do it. Christ! He couldn’t even ride. Dealing with financiers, film executives and dramatists every day was a cinch in comparison to that. Yet what did they get paid? Peanuts, unless they were at the top of their profession. And how many broken bones and broken hearts did it take to get there?

  Enthralled, he watched the programme to its conclusion; learnt several interesting, if not to say thought provoking facts, and was surprised to discover it was after twelve o’clock by the time it ended. His colleagues would probably still be out clubbing, and hitting the high spots of London. Well, he could live without that. He had something much more important on his mind.

  At seven fifteen the following morning, he made one of many phone calls.

  ‘James? Pick up the phone, James. I know you’re there.’

  ‘Jesus, Lewis,’ came the weary groan from the other end of the line. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘To the minute,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I take it you had a good night? Better than the Jazz Club, I presume?’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  Lewis smiled. The fact that both Matthew and James had been virtually ignored by their respective dates on the same night must have come as something of a body blow to the pair of them. Country girls obviously had more sense than their city counterparts – or maybe they were just plain choosy. ‘I saw an interesting documentary on television last night,’ he told him.

  ‘You haven’t phoned to tell me that?’ James groaned.

  ‘Actually, yes, I have.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Robert Johnson has a daughter.’

  A long pause followed. ‘I take it you’re talking about the show-jumper, Robert Johnson?’ James sighed.

  ‘Naturally.’

  An inaudible groan echoed down the line. ‘Lewis, its seven o clock in the morning.’

  ‘I know. Now listen, James, this could be important.’

  ‘It could?’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Yes. Those two girls at the stables were his step-daughters, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well according to the documentary, Robert Johnson had a daughter. She was fifteen when he died, so that would make her about twenty or twenty one now.’

  ‘She’s probably at college, then,’ James said sleepily. ‘That’s the right sort of age. You would think if she were still at the stables, her stepmother would have mentioned her.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s what I thought,’ Lewis said, scratching his unshaven jaw thoughtfully. ‘But I can’t help wondering if she was the girl I saw on the cross country course.’

  ‘The mystery blonde?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I know it sounds daft, but I’m sure I could see a certain resemblance between her and the man I watched last night on the telly.’

  ‘So why wouldn’t Ursula want us to know about her?’

  ‘That, my friend,’ he said. ‘Is what I intend to find out.’

  At eight fifteen precisely on that Saturday morning, Lewis Trevelyan drove his silver BMW from its covered parking space in the basement of the apartment block, and headed for Hammersmith, where he picked up Simon De Silva.

  His personalised number plate – LEW 15, drew many an admiring glance, as he weaved through the London traffic, and hit the motorway at speed. He should have waited until he could have picked up a hire car, but he was anxious for them to be on their way.

  ‘At least take a bloody minder with you,’ James said, when he heard of his plans for the weekend. ‘You’ll have every female under fifty going nuts.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Lewis said. ‘This is Suffolk we’re going to. They’re a pretty reserved lot out there in the sticks. Besides which, if we turn up with loads of bodyguards, we’re bound to attract attention. And in any case,’ he added. ‘I haven’t given them Simon’s real name. As far as they’re concerned, his riding lesson is booked under the name of Adam Lansing.’

  ‘And you don’t think, for one minute, that they’ll recognise him?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ he said. ‘But it’s a chance we have to take.’

  ‘Jesus, Lewis. You must be mad.’

  ‘Desperate, more like,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, James. I’ll keep in touch.’

  He eased his foot off the accelerator pedal, and glanced across at his companion.

  Simon De Silva was dozing in the passenger seat, having been rudely awoken by an early morning phone call.

  ‘Riding lesson? Yeah, I’m up for it,’ he had murmured sleepily, giving Lewis the distinct impression that he probably didn’t know what he was agreeing to. He no doubt thought he was still in some kind of dream. A dream that had ended abruptly with him banging on the door and insisting that he dress appropriately for the occasion.

  It was definitely a case of killing two birds with one stone. Whilst Simon was getting in some well-needed riding practice, Lewis intended to pay Ursula a visit. Because, one way or the other, he was going to find out the identity of the illusive blonde girl, whether she was Robert Johnson’s daughter or not. And he had no intention of leaving the stables until he did so.

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday was usually the busiest day of the week for the staff at Hollyfield S
tables. Apart from the weekly children’s pony club for the under-twelve’s, there was also the ‘Own a Pony Day’ sessions for willing teenagers, who could pay to have the joy of mucking out, feeding and grooming the horse of their choice.

  It was a cost effective way of securing cheap labour for the day, and the girls (and occasional boy), who took part, had no complaints about the fact that they were being used as unpaid workers. For one entire day they could pretend that they actually owned a horse. They were allowed to brush it to their hearts content and plait tails and manes, and oil hooves until they gleamed. A riding lesson was also included, and if they were lucky, an informal hack over the fields as well. In between, they would muck out stables, sweep the yard, fill hay nets and water buckets, and generally do all the tasks the regular stable girls did – and they even paid for the privilege of being allowed to do so.