by Sam Short
“He’s lucky to have a friend who can arrange the use of a World War Two fighter plane,” said Jessica.
“He’s quite the friend,” added Charlotte.
“Who’s quite the friend?” came a voice from the doorway.
“Oh,” said Charlotte, applying the last touches to Jessica’s hair and dabbing more dark make-up on her forehead. “Hi, Oswald. We were just saying how great your friend is who arranged the Spitfire.”
“Indeed,” said Oswald. “It’s as they say… It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, and I happen to know a man who runs the society of which the Spitfire owner is a member. Now, if only I knew who it was who’d stolen my lights! They cost almost a thousand pounds, yet the police don’t seem to be doing anything to find them! I told that Sergeant Saxon at the police station that the person who stole them must be local. They were only unattended for a few minutes, and nobody heard the sound of a vehicle engine. Whoever took them must have carried them away, and although I’m no detective, that tells me that the thief lives locally! I’ll find out who it was, and when I do, they’d better watch their back! I’m not a man to be trifled with. They didn’t call me Mad Ossie Clementine in university for no good reason!”
“I’m sure you’ll find them, Oswald,” said Charlotte. “Lights like that aren’t the sort of thing that normal people have lying around. I’m sure the police will be asking questions, and somebody will know something. I did ask around again yesterday when I went with Billy to collect the film props. Nobody knew anything, but I’m sure somebody will come forward with some information soon.”
Oswald nodded. “We can only hope, Charlotte, but it’s been two weeks. I think perhaps they’re long gone, but never mind, life goes on! Now, is my beautiful female lead ready? Everything is ready to go, and Brian is waiting.”
“I’m ready,” said Jessica. She smiled at Charlotte. “How do my lips look?”
“Very full and very kissable,” said Charlotte, with a grin. “Just how I imagine a young lady working the land during the war would have looked.”
“I’m sure some of them did care about their appearance during those long days in the fields,” said Oswald. “And anyway, it’s my film, and I want my land-girl to be beautiful. I’m sure Brian will appreciate it, too. Especially when you two perform the kiss scene.”
Charlotte giggled, and Jessica blushed, but Pepper rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that women who were working their fingers to the bone every day on farms and in factories while their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands fought overseas, didn’t really care that much about how their lips looked,” she said.
“But, Pepper darling,” said Oswald. “Emily is in love with Charles, and in the scene we’re about to film, Charles is leaving home for what may be the last time. He’s one of the pilots who will keep the Germans from our shores during the Battle Of Britain. Emily may not have accepted his hand in marriage yet, but she loves him! I’m sure she’d apply a little lippy before coming to see him off!”
“We’re ready!” came a voice from outside.
“You heard the man!” said Oswald, clapping his hands twice in quick succession. “Let’s go!” He looked at Pepper. “You have a few simple lines. Do you remember them?”
“Of course I remember them,” said Pepper. “Although I’m not sure a woman like Mrs Banforth would have used language like you expect her to.”
Oswald frowned. “Charles is a twenty-one-year-old Spitfire pilot, Pepper. Mrs Banforth is old enough to be his mother. She may only be the woman who dusts his mantelpiece, cooks his meals, and presses his uniform, but she cares for him like he’s the son she’s never had! She’ll use any language necessary to convey her emotions during this scene! I want you to deliver your lines like you mean them, Pepper. I want you to be Mrs Banforth, and when Charles is about to get into his car to drive away for what might be the last time, I want you to turn the air blue with that tongue of yours! Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Pepper.
“Good!” said Oswald. “Then let’s get this scene captured on film, people! Then, when this scene is finished, we’ll have almost completed our work! The film is nearly done!”
“We’re ready!” came the voice from outside again, this time more impatient.
“Get into your positions,” ordered Oswald. “Come on!”
“Action!”
Pepper stood in the doorway with her spine straight and her upper lip stiff, like Oswald had directed. She clutched a handkerchief in one hand, and cold tears of tap water dampened her eyes and cheeks.
She’d tried to cry using all the tips that the crew had suggested, but having not cried for a genuine reason since the death of Freddie Mercury, squeezing out fake tears had proved quite impossible.
She moved aside as the actor playing Charles brushed past her, his uniform crisp and the black peak of his cap casting a line of shade across his brown eyes. As his boots crunched on gravel, he turned to face Pepper, a brown leather briefcase in one hand and a fur-lined pilot’s jacket in the other.
He looked Pepper in the eyes, the set of his strong jaw giving him an air of determination. “You’ll look after the castle while I’m away, won’t you, Mrs Banforth? And if the worst happens to me and I don’t come home, you’ll make sure —”
“The worst won’t happen!” snapped Pepper, taking two steps towards the pilot. She counted to three, looked at the spot of the floor which Oswald had pointed out and lifted her chin. “The worst can’t happen, Charles. You’re like a son to me. I need you!”
Brian gave a slow nod and then sighed. He looked towards the sky, his eyes narrowed. “When I’m up there, Mrs Banforth, fighting for my life among the clouds, it’s not my dead mother, killed in a tragic tram accident in London, who I’ll be wishing for. It will be you, dear Mrs Banforth… You, the woman who darns my socks and salts my food. You, Mrs Banforth, the woman who keeps my sheets soft and my resolve firm. You, Mrs Banforth, the woman who would make any son proud to call her his mother!”
Pepper counted to two, gasped, gave a strangled sob, closed her eyes, lifted the handkerchief to her cheek, dabbed, shook her head, opened her eyes, gritted her teeth, took a step closer to Brian, pointed at the vintage car in her driveway, and spoke her next line. “Then go, Charles! And when you come home safe and sound, I’ll be here, waiting!” She lowered her eyes. “And Farmer Ted owes me a favour. Rationing or not, Charles, when you come home there’ll be a leg of pork on the table, and a dollop of apple sauce alongside it.”
“And potatoes?” said Charles, staring at the driveway. “What about potatoes?”
Pepper gave the thin smile that Oswald had demanded, and then added the long sigh. She reached for Brian and laid her hand on his shoulder. “You know the answer to that, Charles,” she said. “You’re in love with a potato picker, a potato picker who isn’t afraid to take some potatoes for herself when nobody is looking, a potato picker who loves you, Charles!”
“Then why isn’t there a pretty little potato picker wearing the ring I offered her, while she works in the top field next to the stream?” said the pilot, his face crumpling in a way that even Pepper was impressed by. “Why is her finger empty of gold, while a ring sits heavy in my briefcase?”
“You know why, Charles!” said Pepper. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief again. “You know why. She loves you, but you are a pilot, and she is a potato picker. Imagine how it would break her heart to feel her feet in the safe and sturdy soil of a field each day, while high above her, her husband dangles on the precarious ends of the strings of fate? She said no to your proposal, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she loves you too much! To lose you as her boyfriend would be hard enough, to lose you as her husband would kill the girl!”
Brian stared at Pepper, licked his lips, and gave a nod. “I understand, Mrs Banforth, and I know what I must do! I must take to the skies and fight, and then I must come home safe and well, and only then will I ask Emily for her h
and again!” He looked heavenward. “I’ve got an appointment with some Jerry pilots. Up there.”
As Brian turned his back and strode purposefully towards the old car, Pepper took one, two, three, four, steps after him, scrunched the handkerchief in her fist, raised her arm over her head, and pointed at the clouds. “Charles!” she yelled. “While you’re up there, kill some of those bloody German bastards for me!”
With his back still to Pepper, Brian opened the car door slowly, placed his jacket and briefcase inside and turned slowly to face the cottage. “I’ve never heard such cruel language leave your kind lips, Mrs Banforth, but I must say, it’s got me fired up! My dander is fizzing, Mrs Banforth!”
“Then go and kill me some buggers!” said Pepper. “And when you come home, there’ll be a leg of pork on your table and a pretty potato picker sitting alongside it!”
“Cut!” shouted Oswald from his position alongside the camera. “That was beautiful! Both of you were wonderful, and Pepper you are a natural actress. I’m so happy you agreed to play the part of Mrs Banforth — the person who I had in mind couldn’t have played her like you did, Pepper!”
“I hope I haven’t stepped on somebody else’s toes by accepting the part,” said Pepper.
“Oh no,” said Charlotte, standing next to the sound-man. “I was going to play her, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’m a make-up artist, not an actress.”
“Okay!” said Oswald. “If we’re all ready, let’s move on to the final scene. In this scene, Charles is driving away in a cloud of exhaust fumes and with a growl of the car’s engine, when Emily comes running around the bend in the lane with a small sack of potatoes in her hand. Are you ready, Pepper? This is your last scene, and you only have two lines.”
Pepper nodded, rolling her shoulders to loosen them, and quite shocked at how serious she seemed to be taking the whole thing. “I’m ready,” she confirmed. “Let’s do this.”
“Jessica?” yelled Oswald, as the car engine roared to life and a deep rumble filled the air. “Are you ready?”
“Ready!” shouted Jessica, from fifty metres along the lane.
“Then, action!” yelled Oswald.
Driven by one of the crew members, the old car lurched forward, the pretty colours of Meadow View Cottage’s front garden reflected in its paintwork. As its tyres left gravel and the car turned into the lane, Jessica began running towards it, a small sack in her right hand, and her left hand raised in the air. “Charles!” she shouted, waving her hand from left to right. “Wait! I say yes! I say yes to being to Mrs Hayhurst. Put the ring on my finger, Charles, and I shall be here waiting for you when you return a hero!”
Pepper stepped forward quickly, rushing into the lane, following the route Oswald had told her to as the camera tracked her every movement. She stepped into Jessica’s path. “It’s too late, Emily,” she said. “He’s gone. But he’ll be back! I just know he will!”
Jessica stared at Pepper, her full red lips quivering, and let out a sob. “But he’s my pilot,” she gasped, dropping the sack — two potatoes rolling from it as it hit the floor.
Pepper gazed at the potatoes, and then gazed at Jessica. As the sound of the car engine vanished into the distance, she put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder and delivered her final line. “And you’re his pretty potato picker, Emily.”
“Cut! That was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” yelled Oswald. “That was fantastic, and the potatoes rolled from the bag just like we planned! Perfect!” He turned to Charlotte and gave her a beaming smile. “Having Emily carrying a sack of potatoes was a great idea on your behalf, thank you for bringing them! It made the scene far more poignant than my writing could have done on its own.”
“And not just any potatoes,” commented Charlotte, her words wrapped in a thick veneer of pride. “They’re Majestic potatoes. The grower gave me the full lecture on them. He said they were the spud that won the war and were eventually replaced by the Maris Piper as the most popular British potato.”
“Hah!” said Oswald. “So, should a reviewer, who happens to be knowledgable on the topic of tuber crops, watch my film, he or she will not be able to criticise the choice of potato used in that scene! Wonderful, Charlotte, simply wonderful! You’ve helped bring The Pilot and The Potato Picker to life! What a wonderful film it’s going to be. It’s a been a long road for us all, but we’re almost there! We only have one scene left in town to film, and then we only have the final airfield scenes to complete!” He gave a wide smile as he clapped his hands. “Now, let’s get packed up and leave Pepper alone. She’s done us a great service this morning by allowing us to use her home, and herself, in our film.”
Chapter 7
Pepper tried her best, but she just couldn’t cycle past the terraced house and ignore the pleas for help. She brought her bike to a halt and looked around, checking nobody was watching her who might get her in trouble with the police.
The dying plant, tucked away in a dark corner next to a drainpipe and a small hill of wet, dead leaves, wouldn’t have long to live if Pepper didn’t intervene, and as she climbed off her bike and checked the coast for observers one last time, she listened to the plant again.
The weak vibes it gave off told her that it required light and was desperately short of nutrition, too. She leaned her bike against the iron fence topped by threatening spikes and reached into her bag, which occupied most of the space in the basket attached to the handlebars of her green bicycle. With her arm up to her shoulder in the denim bag, Pepper rummaged through the contents, her hand tingling as it moved through the magic which gave the bag its extra dimension. The sweetness of strawberry bonbons rose to her nose as she peered into the dim interior, and she frowned as her fingers grazed an object she didn’t immediately recognise.
It felt like a book, but the book she was currently reading was on the small table next to her bed, with a bookmark tucked inside the chapter explaining how one should act like a confident woman even when one felt like the world was against them. She grabbed the spine of whatever publication had somehow found its way into her bag and pulled it closer to the light, tutting as she made out the bold black writing on the paper cover.
She’d looked everywhere for the instruction manual which had come with her new washing machine. Well, almost everywhere, it seemed. At least now she could learn how to wash her clothes on an express setting instead of being forced to wait for a four-hour cycle to finish every time she got the knees of her jeans or the hem of her skirt a little dirty.
She allowed the manual to fall back into the depths of the bag and continued her search for the tool she required to help save the life of the plant, and gave a satisfied grunt when she felt one of the thick metal tines brush her thumb. She closed her hand around the wooden handle and pulled the small gardening fork from the bag, checking the street just one more time for nosy neighbours or the tale-telling glass of a CCTV camera lens. Happy that she was not being watched, Pepper lifted the latch on the garden gate and pushed it open, squeezing through the small gap it offered when it ground to a scraping halt on a cracked paving slab.
Hurrying to the gloomy corner in which the plant was dying, Pepper crouched low as she passed three windows and the front door of the property. When she arrived at the stricken plant, she spoke in a soothing voice as she touched one of the limp brown leaves. “You poor thing,” she said. “Life has been hard for you, hasn’t it? Let’s see what I can do to help.”
Pressing the tines of the small fork into the moss layered compacted soil at the base of the plant’s wilting stem, Pepper worked quickly. She turned the soil over, loosening it in preparation for the life-saving spell she was about to cast, and placed the fork on the cracked concrete next to her boot.
She could have used magic to loosen the soil, of course, but Pepper was a careful witch — despite what her frequent run-ins with the long, anti-gardening arm of the law, might suggest. The less time she had a wand between her fingertips while in a public place, th
e better, in her opinion. It would be bad enough if she were spotted trespassing, it would be infinitely worse if the person who reported her to the police also mentioned that Pepper had been seen brandishing a stick which spewed green sparks from the tip. Although her wand would show no magical qualities if a non-magic person were to discover it, it was not possible to hide it from an undetected observer — especially in a street with as many houses lining the road as the one she was currently in. She could do without the awkward conversations which would follow if somebody was adamant they’d seen Pepper wielding some sort of magical stick. She needed to be careful.
With those concerns in mind, Pepper checked her surroundings once more before slipping her wand from inside her jacket and pointing it at the plant. Concentrating on how she wanted the magic to react when it connected with the plant, she smiled as a stream of green lights crossed the short distance between the tip of the wand and the lowest leaf of the dying plant.
As the first spark of magic landed on the wilted leaf, the plant reacted immediately. First, the single leaf quivered, its tip curling upwards and a bright green colour beginning to replace the creeping brown of death, and then the whole plant responded.
Like one of the singing and dancing Christmas trees which Pepper had seen in December shop windows, the little plant vibrated gently at first, and then exploded in a beautiful display of life, its stalk twisting and swaying as each of its leaves shuddered and curled open. With fresh life flowing through it, the plant gained an inch or two in height as the magic worked, and when every leaf had turned a vivid bright green, and the stalk was rigid and healthy again, the plant seemed to let out a contented sigh and relax into the soil before all movement ceased.
With a satisfied nod of her head, Pepper slid the wand back inside her jacket. “There you go,” she said, grabbing the rim of the plant pot and dragging it out of the corner. “Let’s get you into the light. That breath of fresh life I gave you will keep you going for at least another year as long as you can feel the sun on your leaves.”
