At the end of the counter we signed a chit with the name of the television company, the studio number and the title of the film we were working on. Lesley grabbed a giant bib from a peg and tied it round my neck. I tried to protest but she told me everyone had to wear them. “And don’t you dare take it off,” she warned. “There’ll be a flamin’ riot if you get a dollop of grease down the front of that little item.”
As I was looking round for an empty table, Angel recognized me even under the inches of make-up and waved me over. I was hesitant, but Lesley butted me in the back with her tray.
“You go. I’ve got a bone to pick with old Deadlegs over yonder.” She went off to pick her bone with Deadlegs and I threaded my way through the tables to where Angel and Anthony were sitting.
Angel, her mane of curly hair caught back in a ribbon and wearing her habitual garb of jeans with suede chaps and jodhpur boots, relieved me of my tray. Angel’s moods changed with the wind but this morning she was ebullient and welcoming, hugging me, settling me in a chair, arranging my cutlery, spilling my coffee in her anxiety to make me welcome. She inspected the ingredients of my breakfast, and perhaps finding three sausages excessive, helped herself to one of them before flopping back in her own chair, chewing and beaming.
Anthony watched. He watched with a faintly amused smile, leaning back in his chair in a way my mother would have considered detrimental to its legs, balancing a mug on his denim-clad knee, wearing stitched Western boots, a cream silk shirt and an old brown leather waistcoat. His dark hair was slicked back, his face shadowed with stubble. As always, his eyes reminded me of Rudolph Valentino.
I knew the score. Ziggy, whose advice had never failed me, warned that as a young, inexperienced, actress, I would be in a vulnerable position. “You get somebody eyeing you up, you got to peg it in the opposite direction, Kiddo. You get involved with somebody on the set and that involvement’s gonna last just as long as the film lasts, maybe not that long. After that you got somebody in the business thinks you’re fresh as last year’s cheesecake, so you got apathy, or else you got bad blood, and you multiply that by how many films you make and pretty soon you’ll be on the outside looking in, Grace Darling. So take my advice. Keep your love-life off the set. Stay pure for the cameras, Kiddo.”
I didn’t need Camilla Cook to tell me Anthony Sylvester was dangerous. I knew it. The fact that he was the best horsemaster and had the best trained animals available to the film industry gave him power. I had been told that in the past he had used that power to get rid of actresses and actors who had crossed him. He was easy to offend where his horses were concerned and his temper was legendary. Nobody tangled with the King of the Horsemasters lightly, and nobody who mistreated his horses reigned long on the set. On a film where the storyline leaned heavily upon horses, it was easier to recast a role than to find another horsemaster and Anthony Sylvester knew it. For this reason I was not going to allow myself to become involved, and if this was not sufficient reason, there was another. Anthony cared only about his horses. People came a lot further down the scale in his estimation of worth, and as people, actresses were the scrapings.
Yet looking across the table into those amused, brilliant eyes, my heart tightened and it took all the self-control I could muster to keep my hand steady as I lifted my coffee.
“So how are things?”
“Things are great.” Having disposed of the sausage, Angel now helped herself to a piece of my toast. “The Raven’s here and he’s behaving beautifully. The filming should be a piece of cake.”
The Raven was the horse I had lamed at the film test but since then we had become firm friends, if one could be said to be friends with a horse. He was an experienced and trustworthy performer with an obliging and kindly temperament; I was looking forward to being reunited with The Raven.
“And how are you finding life as an actress?” Anthony enquired.
Knowing the low opinion he had of the profession, I was not about to give him the satisfaction of hearing that so far I was finding it consisted of being plastered with stage gore, lying under a mangled Renault being sprayed with water, and being dragged barefoot along the corridors of Television City by a gothic punk. “Life is fine,” I said firmly, “apart from not having enough sleep.”
“I can see they didn’t give you time to dress this morning.”
He grinned.
I flushed.
Damn you, Anthony Sylvester, I thought.
Angel gave me a speculative look and removed another sausage from my plate. I speared a piece of bacon. It took a lot of swallowing. Somehow my appetite had failed.
“Eat your breakfast, Grace Darling. It will put some colour in your cheeks. You’re far too pale. Still, I expect they will rectify that when you go to make-up.”
He knew perfectly well I had already been to make-up. Normally I would have been ready with a retort but now I could think of nothing to say. I glowered.
He got up from the table. “I’m going to check the machinery. Don’t be too long, Angel, there’ll be some preliminary riding to do.”
I watched him walk away across the canteen, raising an arm briefly to acknowledge a group of people he knew. I could not afford to fall for him. I would not. Already I had lost one long-standing relationship because of my career.
Richard had recently announced his engagement to Marcia Cunningham, and who could blame him? My mother had sent me the cutting from the Wallingford Gazette announcing the engagement, together with a rueful little note. It had been her ambition to see me married to Richard and comfortably settled nearby. I had been sorry for her sake, and even more sorry for my own, but I had got over it, and now, at this crucial time, when I needed every ounce of single-minded dedication in order to prove myself, I was not going to have it threatened by Anthony Sylvester. I forced my attention back to Angel.
By this time she had munched her way through all of my toast and the last of the sausages. One felt that only the fact that the fried egg was tricky to handle prevented her from attempting it. I presumed the meals at the stables had reverted to the old system of an evening delivery of the plat du jour from the local village hostelry. A memory of flaccid chips, over-cooked frozen peas, and coq au vin violently enhanced with cochineal softened any ill-will I might have directed towards Angel, who had taken advantage of my emotional turmoil and eaten my breakfast.
“How’s Hender?” I asked.
Anthony and Hender now shared premises and had formed a somewhat unequal partnership in which Anthony was the undisputed leader.
“Hender’s fine, apart from the fact that he’s having a spot of bother with his latest acquisition at the moment. It seems to have a screw loose.”
“A new horse?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s it like?” I made a start on the egg which by this time was cold and solidified.
“Sixteen hands and quite beautiful, absolutely stunning to look at. He’s white – I mean really white, so few horses are, and he was shipped over from the States.”
“Why?”
“I fear we may find out soon,” Angel said darkly. “He was offered to us through a dealer and Hender bought him because he was cheap.”
“I didn’t think stunt horses were ever cheap.”
“You’re right. You hardly ever see a stunt horse for sale.” Angel sighed. “In retrospect, Hender should have smelled a rat and perhaps he did. But this horse, The Blizzard he’s called, is absolutely brilliant, Grace. There just isn’t anything he can’t do. He can work loose, do High School, work to a marker, fall, play dead; he’s an absolute marvel.”
It was no good, I could not face the egg. I laid down my knife and fork. “So where’s the snag?”
“The snag is that he’s got a vicious streak and you never know how to take him. He works so beautifully that he stops your heart, if he started to speak you wouldn’t be surprise, then the next minute he’ll turn on you with flattened ears, bared teeth, flying hooves, the works
. Hender’s black and blue but he’s determined to cure him. He won’t give up.”
“And what does Anthony think?”
“He says Hender’s wasting his time. He’s convinced the horse is a rogue and will never reform. He says he’s dangerous.”
“It’s unusual for Anthony to give up on a horse.”
“I know. But this time it’s different. There’s something about the horse, somehow, and I agree with Anthony. It’s a rogue and I think Hender should realize it and admit he’s beaten. I think there must be something loose inside his head.”
“I feel sorry for Hender though, if he’s been sold a pup.”
“So do I. And he seems to really love the horse, that’s the awful thing.”
I thought of the beautiful white horse, shipped over from the States and sold cheap. A horse who stopped your heart, who could do anything. A horse somebody had trained for years and years and finally given up on because they suspected there was something loose inside his head. I did not need to ask what would happen to him when Hender finally gave up on him as well and admitted he was beaten. I knew.
There was a preliminary humming from the overhead speakers.
“CALL FOR STUDIO EIGHT PLEASE. CALL FOR THE SILVER BRIDLE PLEASE. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED IN FIVE MINUTES. YOUR CO-OPERATION WOULD BE APPRECIATED.”
I untied my bib.
Angel cast a last hopeful glance at my plate.
“Aren’t you going to eat the rest of the egg?”
I pushed the plate over to the side of the table.
Studio 8 was like a vast factory with a black rubber floor, black walls, and if one could only see it above the row upon row of lighting equipment slung below, the ceiling was black as well.
Television City was constructed in a compete circle in the centre of which were the administrative offices, the dressing rooms, costumes, make-up, hairdressing, and the canteen. From the centre one went outwards into the studios which were set like the segments of an orange. On the outside of the circle, leading off the studios, was a great circular passage used for the storage of props and scenery where fork-lift trucks dodged about transporting heavy items from studio to studio. At intervals in the passage, huge doors opened on to the vehicle parks giving each studio direct access to the outside world. This meant that The Raven could be unloaded from his horsebox and walked through the doors, across the passage, straight on to the studio floor.
Once inside the studio I could hear the low rumble of machinery. Great squares of wooden scenery known as flats were propped up with braces and stage weights. When I walked round them they turned themselves into realistic sets. Here was a kitchen, complete with units, a sink and a washing machine. With its kettle, toaster and breakfast bar laid with orange juice and croissants, it looked genuine enough to be in anyone’s home. The next set was a Dickensian sweet shop with low beams, brass scales and twisted barley sugar sticks in glass bottles. After that came a men’s urinal, which was something of a shock after the previous two.
None of the sets I passed was in use, but further across the studio floor there was a vast arrangement of supported flats over the back of which spilled acres of blue cloth. This set was lit and surrounded by cameras and people.
The Director spotted me and hurried over. “Hey, Grace Darling, what kept you? Don’t you know you’ve got to get your make-up fixed before we can make a start? Have you any idea how much it’s costing a minute to utilize this place?” He took me by the elbow and bustled me along to where Lesley was waiting with her make-up box. “OK girls, you got two minutes so make it snappy.”
Lesley rolled her eyes and set to work reshaping my mouth. In front of the blue-draped flats, a mammoth conveyor belt had been set up and as it rolled and rumbled, The Raven cantered on top of it, as sweetly and as easily as if he were cantering in his home paddock. His ears were pricked, his beautiful silken tail was high, his black coat gleamed, he looked like a fairy-tale horse in a children’s picture book.
Anthony stood several feet away on the studio floor holding the end of the lunge rein which was clipped on to The Raven’s headcollar. Yet the rein hung slack, he flourished no whip, and no threat or inducement was necessary to keep the horse on the rolling belt. It was enough for The Raven to know that his trainer required him to be there. One felt he might attempt to jump over the moon if asked, so complete was his trust; such was his desire to please.
As I watched, Anthony signalled to the operator working the conveyor belt. At his spoken command, The Raven dropped back into a trot, from trot to walk, and from walk to halt as the belt slowed and, juddering slightly, stopped altogether. Then The Raven cocked an enquiring ear towards his trainer and waked calmly down the ridged ramp and on to the studio floor.
A patter of applause came from the crew. Although the belt had been set up in the Sylvester yard and the training had taken place over several months, working on a moving belt was an act of faith on The Raven’s part that few horses would contemplate. This untroubled, matter-of-fact performance was yet another example of Anthony’s skill as a trainer.
My part in the proceedings was not difficult. We were shooting the dream sequence at the start of the serial in which Eileen, the crippled heroine, rides through the sky. The dream sequence was also to be used as part of the promotional video for the theme song recorded by Jonathan Sly, lead singer with a rock group currently in vogue, who was also to make an appearance in the serial as a guest star.
At the briefing, the Director had informed me that all I had to do was to sit on The Raven whilst he cantered on the belt, and take direction. As I had no lines to fluff, and no particular acting ability was called for, it would be a piece of cake, even for a novice, he had told me. I had to realize the people who had the problems were the technicians whose job it was to make the flying sequence look realistic. This was to be done by a technique known as colour separation overlay, in which the film of The Raven and myself cantering in front of the blue cloth would later be superimposed over a separately shot background of night sky by an electronic process too complicated for a beginner to understand.
Now I sat on a stool in the make-believe kitchen staring at the plastic croissants and the dust-filmed orange juice whilst Lesley reshaped my mouth and reapplied highlights to my face. Already my stomach was feeling decidedly hollow and I wished I had been disciplined enough to force down some breakfast. A few feet away, Angel, who had breakfasted irritatingly well, applied highlights to The Raven’s face from a tub of Vaseline, smoothing it sparingly around his nose and eyes. As I lifted my feet for Lesley to rub the soles clean, Angel knelt at The Raven’s feet and began to paint his hooves with black varnish from a can. As my hair was fluffed out and resprayed, so the black horse’s mane and tail were brushed. As my costume was prinked and straightened and smoothed, The Raven’s coat was polished with a piece of silk.
I watched Anthony replace The Raven’s headcollar with a perfectly beautiful bridle made of stitched silver calf that must have cost every penny of five hundred pounds. At the same time Lesley tied a silver ribbon around my waist, arranging it in a trailing bow behind. It was as if The Raven and myself were being prepared for some weird sacrificial ritual, as if at any moment we might be laid across an altar and offered to the gods.
But the gods the Director served were less concerned with blood sacrifice than with shooting schedules and, as usual, there was no time to be lost. With shirtsleeves held up by metal expanders, tie loosened and awry, passing a hand through imaginary hair on his polished scalp, and checking his watch every few seconds, he paced the studio floor, checking camera angles, testing the lighting, even arresting my progress towards a reunion with The Raven by grabbing the trailing ribbon at my waist.
“You got to keep your distance until you’re under direction, Grace Darling,” he said in a severe tone. “You got to remember whilst you’re working on this film you’re company property. You know what that means?”
I shook my head.
“It m
eans you don’t take no chances, Grace Darling, that’s what it means. Sure, we got insurance, it’s union rules, but say the horse puts one of its great clodhoppers on your foot, what happens then?”
I shrugged. The Director let go of the ribbon and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what happens; what happens is I’m left with a film to make, a crew to pay, a studio costing me two hundred a minute, and a female lead with five broken toes. What happens is I have to recast the part and you’re finished before you started, that’s what happens.”
From a safe distance I watched as Angel led The Raven back on to the conveyor belt. When this was accomplished the Director escorted me to the set and the AD lifted me up on to the belt and from there up on to the horse’s warm, slippery back. The Raven was all of sixteen hands high and the belt was at least three feet off the studio floor. I felt very unsafe and exposed in the hot, bright lights. I looked down at Anthony. He grinned. I looked away, remembering it was his fault I had been unable to eat my breakfast. It was only marginally consoling to know the rumblings of the conveyor belt would drown the grumblings of my empty stomach. But perhaps the shooting would be over quickly; after all, hadn’t the Director promised it would be a piece of cake?
There was no little argument about how the folds of my nightdress should be best arranged for the four cameras and what with the Director hopping up and down to squint through the lens of each whilst first the flounced hem was pulled over the horse’s rump then tucked behind my thighs, it was twenty minutes before anything was decided. As nobody had sought my opinion I had kept quiet, remembering that I was supposed to be a piece of company property awaiting direction.
“Pick up the reins, Grace. I’m going to start the belt.” Obediently I took hold of the insubstantial silver reins. The Director had vanished up a metal staircase leading to the gallery and the gantry, and had reappeared in the fish tank, the Director’s studio gallery, which had a large window overlooking the studio floor. From there he could watch the output of all four cameras on monitor screens and direct by talkback. Anthony now had earphones clamped round his head as did most of the crew.
Catch a Falling Star (The Silver Bridle Book 3) Page 2
