Chapter 22
Arthur
Our secret lasted four days. Or at least that’s how long everyone kept it a secret that they knew our secret.
So, every day for the last week, instead of writing quietly in the pub and polishing our pitch whilst Beatrice works the bar, I have been given a table on the tiny corner stage, usually reserved for karaoke performances, to take an audience with whomever decides to come.
Much like a lord collecting taxes from his subjects.
Funnily enough, someone did actually try and bring their sheep in to trade for a role in the film but thankfully Tracy put a stop to that before she made it through the door.
Barbara has arrived in a different fur coat each evening, with her eyebrows painted on like Elizabeth Taylor, speaking in an accent that slips between the Hollywood transatlantic and Black Country.
She hasn’t said it in as many words, but I think it may have something to do with her wanting to try her hand as an actress.
‘I once modelled, don’t ya know.’ She flicks her bouncy blow-dry over her shoulder. ‘And I got headhunted to be in the Christmas production at the theatre in town.’
‘Oh lovely,’ I say politely, unable to let anyone down by telling them that we are far from even thinking about a cast at this stage.
‘I remember that,’ Beatrice calls from the bar. ‘Didn’t they ask you to do the tombola in the theatre foyer because Mrs Peterson was in hospital?’
As I cover my snigger with my hand, Barbara’s huff is strong enough to part her fringe right down the middle. ‘Well, they did offer me a role on stage but my hip replacement couldn’t keep up with the choreography.’
‘I know how to ballroom dance. Waltz, rumba, quick step, paso doble. You name it, I know it.’ Another older woman stands up from her gin and tonic to make her announcement abruptly as though throwing her hat into the ring for the competition that only Beatrice and I know doesn’t exist.
‘Watching Strictly doesn’t count as knowing how to dance, Amanda.’ Barbara rolls her eyes and slides a long cigarette holder out of her furs.
‘You aren’t smoking that in here.’ Tracy wags a warning finger.
Barbara leans across the bar to whisper, ‘Don’t worry, love, it’s not real. I got it from that Pesky Blinders murder mystery thingmajig we did at Martyn’s.’ Tracy maintains her stern look until Barbara puts it away with yet another huff.
‘I do really know how to dance,’ Amanda reassures me as she moves herself closer to my table and her eyes grow watery with her emotion.
‘I’m sure you dance beautifully.’ She blushes.
‘If I’m ever on the lookout for dancers, I’ll know where to find you.
’ I can’t say I have any particular interest in making a film where a woman in her fifties dances the paso doble, but if the assurance is enough to prevent Mandy from crying into my pint, then I’m happy to fib.
The week continues much the same. I am inundated with potential members of a cast, I am told a thousand local legends, some about treasure lost in the marshes, others about witches, and a lot about peculiarly shaped vegetables.
It turns out that Beatrice was right from the get-go: Bruce the Butcher is the best, and most reliable, for local stories, so it’s him I’ve visited a further three times for his wisdom.
By now, the script is taking shape. All of my ideas I feed to Beatrice who seems to carve something legible and meaningful from the great hunk of information I offer her.
Day in, day out is spent with her, watching her work, working alongside her, in awe of how she manages to weave together the muddled strands of my mind and make them make sense.
If I had the time to think of anything other than getting this perfect in this moment, I would find a way to thank her. The words aren’t simply enough.
‘We’ve got a meeting.’ I’m out of breath as I meet her in the middle of the field after dashing across acres to find her.
Beatrice releases the sheep she’s grappling with and stares at me, open-mouthed, without saying a word.
Picking up an old end of a cauliflower stalk, I toss it at her, aiming for her mouth and the feeling of it hitting her cheek finally pulls her back to reality. ‘Damn, so close.’
Beatrice punches me on the shoulder muttering ‘bastard’, then shakes her head again, as though trying to allow my words to filter through the synapses of her brain.
‘A meeting?’ she repeats.
‘Yup. A couple of producer friends of mine down in London are willing to give us an audience tomorrow afternoon,’ I say, a little smug that I’ve made the great gob of Beatrice Norton fall almost silent.
‘Really?’ she breathes after another long pause.
‘Really.’ I grin. ‘Do you honestly think I’d dare pull a prank like that on you? I do actually value my life, you know.’
‘Really?’ Beatrice parrots, and I nod. For a moment, we stand in silence, looking at one another as the weight of something I thought was so simple begins to settle.
She throws her arms around my neck, and I don’t have time to react before Beatrice pulls me into a tight embrace and ends up tackling me to the ground with an air of fresh linen and sheep wool.
We lie there for a moment, on the frosted earth, clinging to one another in a moment of unadulterated bliss, and I savour the warmth of her body pressed against mine and the cold tingle of her fingertips pressed to the back of my neck.
Scrambling to her feet, Beatrice brushes down her trousers and clears her throat as her cheeks turn pink. ‘Very good. Congratulations,’ she says, as though trying to reclaim some of her cool, but her smile tears through her serious facade and she takes me by the hand to drag me to my feet.
‘We’d best crack on then.’ Not bothering to release my hand, Beatrice drags me back down the field, a little spring in her step that she doesn’t bother to conceal.
‘Ms Riches!’ Beatrice calls across the yard. ‘Ms Riches!’
My grandmother emerges from the house, her walking stick nowhere to be seen as she races to meet us.
‘What, what is it?’ she says, a little worry laced in her words.
‘Arthur is taking our film to London! He has a meeting with a producer,’ Beatrice gushes, and now it’s my gran’s turn to drag me in for a rather aggressive hug. Before she too realises what it is she’s done and gives me three strong pats on the sleeve of my coat.
‘We have, you mean.’ I turn back to Beatrice. ‘You’re coming with me, aren’t you?’
Her face falls. The overpowering elation fizzles to a fallen look of fear. ‘No, no, I can’t. You’re better off doing it alone.’ She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, so I know there is something more to it.
‘How am I going to get there if I don’t have you to chauffer me?’ I tease, trying to draw back out her smile, but still, it is lost.
‘You can take my car, son.’ Gran looks at me with such an expression of pride that it feels as though I could ask her for anything in that moment and she’d give it to me.
‘I’ll pack you a lunch and everything. Iron your shirt.
You’ve gotta look the part, don’t you know.
’ For the first time, I see a glimmer of a ‘regular’ grandmother, and I wonder if she was like this when my dad told her he was heading off to London to make his dreams come true.
‘I’ll go and get everything ready for you.’ Beatrice speaks quietly now, then walks back down the driveway without stopping to look back.
‘Keys. Here you go. You drive steady, son, okay?’ Gran hands me her car keys the following day, as I finish loading up the car in the farmyard. Kissing her on the cheek in thanks, she brushes me off, though her little smirk hints at her appreciation.
My heart thumps in my chest at the idea of being so close to home again.
The last time I was in London, I covered the front pages in a less than favourable story, and I was simply a nepo baby, riding on the waves of whatever was given to me next.
But now I’m going back as someone even I hardly recognise.
I’m motivated, I’m desperate, I’m … terrified.
‘Okay, have you got the synopsis?’ Beatrice fusses and snaps me out of my introspection for a moment. I nod as she clutches my shoulders with her anticipation. ‘How about the drawings Cerys did?’
I glance at the car and she follows my gaze. The whole thing is packed to the ceiling as though I’m going on a year-long camping trip as opposed to an hour-long meeting in London. ‘Everything is in there, don’t worry.’
‘And you’re pitching to Warner Brothers?’ she asks for the third time, her eyes just as wide and bright as the first time.
‘To a couple of producer acquaintances I know who have worked with Warner Brothers in the past. And a few other production companies.’ She nods her head, trying to curb her excitement that has been threatening to overtake her usually controlled facade.
‘Amazing, amazing,’ she mutters to herself. ‘And you’ve got—’
I grasp her elbows and the action startles her to immediate silence. ‘I have everything. You don’t need to worry.’
Beatrice sighs and sweeps her hair behind her ears.