Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday 1st of December, Llancaradoc Christmas Market, Morning
We’ve agreed this is temporary, a short adventure. Not only because I’m going back to London; Raff is leaving in the New Year, too.
“When do you start your job? The other one I mean, the one you’re going back to?” I ask as he stops to look through second-hand books for sale on one of the stalls.
“Sometime in January,” he says
“That’s a vague start date, isn’t it?” When he told me about the glass wall incident, I’d imagined him working in an office. Not sure why I assumed an office. Maybe it was the mention of a glass office. All my ex-boyfriends worked in the city, ultra-modern buildings with glass walls. I’d imagined him being a handman or security officer in a big bank in the city. “Don’t companies have precise schedules?”
“Depends on public holidays in Mauritania,” he says, paying for a small book and tucking it into the large inside pocket of his coat. Since the night in my room, he’s had his hair in a messy man bun because I told him I loved it that way.
The discovery of the Christmas market distracted us from our original purpose. We came to Llancaradoc looking for the bakery to buy bread for another cream tea and sandwiches for this afternoon. Back by popular demand since Bill and his friends haven’t stopped talking about it. They’ve even attracted three more who want to come. And a few variations on the usual PG Tips, too. I have Cylon loose leaf tea to surprise DeNiro, Darjeeling for Philomena and even oat milk for Llewellyn.
“You’re going to Mauritius?”
“Mauritania? We’re filming in the desert.”
I stop so suddenly, he’s two steps ahead before the pull on our linked hands drags him back. “You’re filming? That’s the job in January? In the desert?”
I repeat phrases, but they’re not the real question getting tangled up in my head. What I want to ask is, how is he filming when he’s not supposed to be an actor anymore?
“I’m only glad they’ve not called me during Christmas. You know how it is. Filming schedule is king. It overrides all other demands. Wasn’t it Stanley Kubrick on The Shining who famously kept them filming till midnight on Christmas Eve?”
“You’re still an actor?” I finally manage.
He gives me a surprised face. If he’s surprised, I’m flabbergasted.
“You didn’t know?” he asks. “I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you told me all that stuff about your play.”
He stares at me as we both try to understand. Then he says, “When you asked me about being an actor that time in the car park, I thought you recognised me.”
My eyes search all over his face, trying to work out who he might be. It’s hard to tell with all the hair and the beard hiding more of his features.
As if to make it worse, he reaches up and releases his man bun. He shakes his hair loose and rubs his fingers through it to make it bushy. “Does this help?” He looks at me expecting me to recognise him.
“Sorry, I have no idea.”
“Really?” Then his eyes gleam and he laughs. “That’s put me in my place. Serves me right for being arrogant.”
Is he supposed to be famous?
“Well?” I wait for him to enlighten me. “Put me out of my misery.”
“I’m in Clan . I play Ursus.”
Clan!
CLAN! I shout inside my head as everything shuffles around in my brain to recalibrate my impression of him. “OMG, Raff, that’s only the biggest series on television.”
He shakes his head still laughing. “No, it isn’t. If it were, you’d have been watching it.”
If he’s offended, there’s no sign of it.
“Only because I’m not into that high fantasy trend, but I’ve heard of Clan . Who hasn’t? They must be on season four now.”
“About to film season five,” he agrees.
Oh my God! All, the time he’s been this quiet guy who fixes chairs and helps out, being modest and standing in the background when in fact he’s a star. Suddenly my tirade the other night fills me with embarrassment. Me with my tiny career. Pretty girl in the crowd, second blonde from the left, third girl in a miniskirt. Upset about not getting to play Aladdin in some nameless panto.
Another man would have laughed at me..
For the rest of the afternoon, I pepper him with questions. Ursus is a bear-brother, a man with a ‘connection’ to a bear, hence the bushy hair.
“But don’t they have wigs and fake bears?”
“Obvs.” The urban shorthand sounds odd from this softly spoken Welshman. It’s a clue to his other life. A side of him I know nothing about.
“Thing is, I’m allergic to the glue stuff.” He runs a hand over his beard. “And the wigs made my scalp too hot. It was easier to grow my own.”
“How long do you film for?” My own filming experience is usually a few days.
“Six to eight weeks, usually. But you know what it’s like. Mostly you’re in make-up for hours then wait around for lighting and stand ins and all the other crew to shift stuff around and line up the equipment. Hours of waiting to film for thirty minutes, if you’re lucky.”
“I thought that was just me because my parts weren’t important.”
He looks at me – and it feels like a great high – then shakes his head. “Everyone. On a film set, the actor comes slightly lower than the people who wash the cups. We had a sweepstake going on how many days we got trussed up in all the gear then never got called. It’s just like Russell Crowe said, the pay is good, but they treat you like shit.”
“Treat you like shit, only if you’re lucky. The truth nobody knows when they read Hello magazine.” A part of me wants to reform working conditions for actors. “Why do we put up with it?”
“Because we love acting.” And a minute later, he throws his head back and laughs. “We must love it like crazy to put up with all that.”
I’ve been temporarily distracted from the news he’s leaving just after Christmas. It’s not until we’ve bought all the supplies and returned to Kendric House that I remember.
“Forgive my ignorance but where is Mauritania?”
“Between Morocco and the Gambia. The scenes I’m in are all desert.” He watches me mix the dough for scones. “So we’re in the north of Mauritania. It’s pretty spectacular, sand dunes and bare red cliffs. And you should see some of the houses, they’re made of stones and I mean stones, just like dry-stone walls but red and pink. But – and that’s a big but – summers get so hot, you could cook eggs in the fresh air. Can you imagine sitting around in all the fur clothing in that heat?”
The way he goes on to tell me about Mauritania, about the river and the coast, the long dry warm days in December and freezing nights, the people and their culture…it’s clear he is so much more than an actor. He actually takes an interest and finds out about the country.
“It sounds like you love the place.” I turn my back on him to slide a tray into the oven. And to hide my face because I’m jealous. So jealous of the time he spends, the things that attract his attention and hold his interest. What a fascinating life he has.
“Bill and the others are going to miss you when you go.” But what I really mean is me. I am going to miss him.
“I’ll miss them too. So, if we can give them a couple more afternoon teas before the end of the year, that would be good.
Yes. I can give them tea three times a week. It’s the least I can do before I have to go back to my little life in London.
“We’ll have almost four weeks,” I say trying not to make it about me and him.
He understands and comes to stand next to me at the counter and watches me mix boiled eggs, mayonnaise and a little mustard.
“Almost four weeks isn’t bad. We can have a lot of fun in almost four weeks.”
We can, as long as nothing else goes wrong at The Glyn.