Chapter One #2
He made an effort all night: helping Phil cook dinner, asking Mum about her work; even remembering the name of the school she’s a counsellor at.
Hannah, heading out to a club, was thrilled because he not only played taxi to her and her mates, but he got them into the club without queuing, then opened a tab for them at the bar.
‘It was so good, Claude,’ Hannah slurred, when she stumbled back into the kitchen at three, a half-eaten kebab in hand.
Nick was out for the count upstairs, but I, sincerely jetlagged, was on my laptop at the table, conducting another fruitless search for a picture of Iris.
She hasn’t left anything of herself behind.
Not even a death certificate. ‘He’s a keeper. Don’t forget that, will you?’
I told Nick she’d said that as we were walking out to the car this morning. He’d been trying so hard, I wanted to give him something to make him happy.
‘You’ve got a super fan,’ I said.
‘Yeah?’ He grinned, his old grin, and it made me ache, because I couldn’t for the life of me remember the last time I’d caused him to do that. ‘Just one? Or can I count you in, too?’
And that was when our phones pinged with The Screen’s article.
Blake, the movie’s lead publicist, sent it.
I was ready to delete it. After everything that’s gone on, I’ve been trying to avoid giving that kind of thing headspace.
But Nick opened it, and, as I stood in the drizzle watching him read, I saw the frown that descended on him and decided I’d better take a look.
He’s tried to claim he’s not annoyed that I didn’t comment on the state of things between the two of us (which we can only take to mean: not great), or that the journalist put a swoon next to Felix’s name but not his.
And maybe if it hadn’t been for those photos in Sicily, he really wouldn’t have cared about that bit. That’s not who he is.
The part about us, though …
Yeah, he’s totally pissed about that.
Looking away from his brooding expression, I return my attention to the woody world outside.
Again, I’m assailed by familiarity: a sense not of arriving, but returning.
It makes even less sense to me now that we’re actually on the estate.
Unlike the roads we’ve just left, I know I’ve never been down this driveway before.
I can’t have been. Until the National Trust took Doverley over, four years ago, it was closed up for decades; derelict.
I’d be tempted to put the recognition I feel down to the photographs of it I’ve pored over all during the war – unlike with Iris, there’s plenty of that to be found on the web – but everything I’ve seen has been of the house and its flat, open surrounds, which we still haven’t reached.
All that remains hidden by these trees. And these trees, this earthy, blue-green shadowland, I’m certain I’ve never come across a picture of.
A bird calls, its lone song ringing out above the hum of the car’s engine, echoing into the early autumnal dusk. At the sound, I close my eyes, lean my head back, and feel a shiver snake through me.
It’s another half mile before Doverley’s woods give way to open parkland, and the house comes suddenly into view, regal and aloof beneath the heavy violet sky.
I lean forward, taking in its high sandstone walls, columns and porticoes, and, as the sinking sun spikes the clouds, watch it all glimmer gold before morphing to matte again.
We draw closer, and distantly I register everything else we pass – the swarms of crew out and about; the rows of trailers parked up on the meadows – but don’t pay any of it attention.
I’m too busy looking at the set of the base that’s been built on the fields stretching out from Doverley’s western wing.
There are hangars, Nissen Hut billets, and barbed wire fences. Model Lancasters stand in the rain, wheels blocked. Above them looms the control tower from which Iris exchanged her last words with Robbie, whatever they might have been.
What would she think of this set, I wonder, if she were to return and see it?
What would Tim Hobbs, Mabel’s Fury’s navigator, say, if he were to come?
I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. He was twenty-five in 1943, and has just had his one hundredth birthday.
He got his message from the queen. I wrote to him too.
I wanted him to know what a privilege I count it, to be a part of re-enacting such an incredible chapter of his life.
I have no idea if he read my message. He’s apparently getting weaker, no longer always himself.
I doubt visiting a film set is even factoring as a possibility in his mind.
And I’m not convinced any of this would feel remotely authentic to him.
It definitely doesn’t feel real to me.
More than anything, it reminds me of one of those theme park rides where trams funnel crowds through every ten minutes, making them jump with the same, repetitive, explosions.
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ says Nick, finally breaking the silence between us.
‘Yes,’ I say, and I’m not sure why I lie.
Maybe because it’s easier than trying to explain the disconnect I feel.
The numbness.
Nick pulls up, shutting off the ignition. Holding the steering wheel, he drops his forehead against it, then turns, giving me a rueful grimace.
‘Sorry, Claude,’ he says. ‘I’ve been an ass. A jealous ass.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, automatically, shifting in my seat, glancing again at the set. ‘I should have handled that reporter better.’
‘They can’t be handled.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ I reply, and this time, don’t stop to question whether or not I’m lying.
I don’t think I am.
I hope I’m not.
Regardless, the journey’s been uncomfortable enough as it is.
We’re set upon as soon as we get out of the car.
Naomi, the assistant director, is the first to pounce, jogging through the drizzle from a nearby trailer to hand us both updated call sheets for the morning.
Emma Jameson – who’s playing Iris’s best friend, Section Officer Clare Holmes – now can’t work tomorrow, so we’re pushing my first scene with her out, and starting instead with a later one, between Nick and Felix.
‘You get a lie-in, Claude,’ says Naomi.
I nod, even though I doubt I’ll sleep, and shrug on my puffer.
It’s biting, much colder than it was in London.
To my left, on the opposite side of the house to the set, sheep graze in fenced-off fields.
Their musty scent carries on the icy breeze, and, as I breathe it in, I’m hit by another wave of familiarity.
A memory too, of myself running among woolly coats in frost-crisped grass.
And a voice – my gran’s? – calling for me to slow down.
You’ll start a stampede. Briefly, I replay it, then I shelve it, because it makes me sad, and it’s not the time for that.
‘Why isn’t Emma working?’ I ask Naomi.
‘She’s got gastro.’
‘What?’ I frown. ‘Since when?’
‘She took a turn at lunchtime. But she’s sleeping it off, and I need you to leave her to it. No one’s allowed in breathing distance.’
‘Is gastro airborne?’ asks Nick.
‘Maybe. Probably. I don’t want anyone taking any chances.’ Removing her glasses, Naomi rubs her eyes. ‘We’re all hoping it’s a twenty-four-hour thing, obviously.’
‘For Emma’s sake,’ I say. ‘Obviously.’
‘Yes,’ she says, and has the good grace to smile. ‘Obviously.’
Jeff, the location manager, joins us, waterproofed from top to toe in a cagoule and rain pants, his posse of lackeys trailing. He directs them to fetch our luggage, park Nick’s car, and hands me two card keys.
‘This is for your trailer,’ he says, ‘and this is for your room.’
‘Wardrobe needs Nick,’ yells a runner, running. ‘Adjustments for tomorrow … ’
Then, ‘Oh good, you’re here,’ comes Ana’s voice, making us all turn as she appears from the house, jogging down its wide front steps.
She holds a clipboard over her cropped curls, and is wearing a cosy get-up of an oversized fluffy jumper, leggings and Ugg boots.
It could almost make her look quite comfortable.
Mumsy. I expect the extras congregated at the catering truck have all been fooled.
Never mind. They’ll realise soon enough she’s an utter badass.
‘All well, Claude?’ she asks, in a tight, braced tone that I can only bear to give one answer to.
‘Great, Ana,’ I say. ‘Really great.’
‘Right,’ she replies, and I know she hasn’t been fooled. Of course she hasn’t. She’s Ana.
‘Nick.’ She claps her hands, much as Mum might to Stewart. ‘Wardrobe. Go. Claude, come with me. There’s something I wanna show you.’
And, as Nick goes, throwing me a frown that lets me know he hasn’t appreciated Ana’s clap, I also do as instructed, following Ana up the steps she’s just come down.
The middle one is a different height to the rest. Ana trips, then rights herself.
‘Damn thing keeps getting me,’ she says.
It doesn’t get me, though.
Even as Ana stumbles, I tap my toe to its edge, skipping over it without consideration.
Then we reach Doverley’s front door.
‘Ready to see something amazing?’ Ana says, flashing me a smile.
‘Always,’ I reply.
‘So come right this way, Ms Baxter.’ Grabbing a hold of the door’s brass handle, she pushes it wide. ‘I’m about to blow your mind.’