Make me a Star (The Silver Bridle Book 1)

by Caroline Akrill

  “Do us a favour, sweetheart,” Norm said in an agreeable tone, “get lost for a bit. By the time you’ve watered your geraniums and counted your ducks we’ll be out of your hair. This is only going to take half an hour.” It was an affable request, but clearly the wrong approach.

  The Park Warden glared at him, incensed. “Get lost? Get lost! Who d’you think you’re telling to get lost? If anybody’s going to get lost, it’s going to be you! You’re the one who’s breaking the rules!”

  Ted moved in as if to get a closer shot. “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere,” he said. “We don’t care a lot for rules, Norm and me. We find rules a bit of a nuisance really; you know, a bit authoritarian, a bit arbitrary… most of the time.”

  The Park Warden did his best to move out of range. “Don’t you try and get smart with me! Don’t get clever!” He stuck out his chin in a challenging manner, “And don’t think I haven’t twigged your little game, because I have! It’s pornography, isn’t it!”

  Ted lowered his camera and looked at him in genuine amazement. “Pornography?” he said in an astonished voice. “At ten o’clock in the morning on a public recreation ground?”

  Displaying the pained surprise of a nursery school teacher Norm said, “My word, what a nasty suspicious mind you have, Mr Park Warden. Go and wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” the Casting Director interceded in a conciliatory tone, “I’m sure we’ve all got our jobs to do and it isn’t going to help any of us if we get into a slanging match. All I’m asking,” he said in a reasonable voice, placing a hand on the Park Warden’s shoulder in a let’s-talk-this-over-sensibly-man-to-man sort of way, “is that you turn a blind eye for twenty minutes so that we can get something in the can. We’ve got an important television job on here, and I’m sure you’re a reasonable man…” With his free hand he reached into his back trouser pocket and produced a bulging wallet.

  The magic word ‘television’ acted as an instant palliative and the wallet reinforced the Park Keeper’s interest, although he tried hard not to notice it. “How do I know you’ll be finished in twenty minutes,” he said suspiciously.

  “You know we’ll be finished in twenty minutes because we’ve just told you we will,” Ted assured him. “It isn’t as if we’ve got much to do. It won’t take us long to cut down a couple of trees, light a bonfire…”

  “…roast a pair of mallard, put the washing to dry on the bushes,” added Norm.

  The Casting Director pulled a ten pound note out of his wallet. “Don’t take any notice of those two,” he said hastily, “they’ve got a crazy sense of humour.”

  Kevin chose this moment to snap his clapperboard out of boredom. The Park Warden whipped round as if he had been shot. “Any more of that, laddie, and I’ll have you,” he said in a threatening voice.

  “Have me for what?” Kevin said in a derisory tone. “I don’t need a licence for this, you know!”

  The Casting Director might still have won the day had not the handler, who had been growing more and more impatient by the second, decided to go about his own business, regardless of whether the film crew were with him or not. He began to heave at the side of a lorry parked beside the caravan. The side of the lorry swung smoothly down to meet the grass and became a ramp. At the top of the ramp, looking down at us from behind a partition, was a large black horse.

  All this was like a terrible nightmare in which the horse was the piece de resistance. At the sight of it I wished I could collapse and die on the spot, but it had quite the reverse effect on the Park Warden. He was galvanized into immediate and apoplectic action. He went berserk.

  “Oh no you flippin’ well don’t,” he yelped. “There’s no horse riding allowed on this common, it’s in the statutory laws!” He hopped over to the ramp in a red-hot fury and heaved up the end of it. The ramp closed with a resounding thunk, shutting both the handler and the black horse inside.

  The Casting Director clutched his temples in despair. “What did the steaming idiot have to show him the horse for!” Then turning to the Park Warden: “I’ve got to have the horse in the shots,” he insisted in an agonized voice, “it’s mandatory!”

  “And I’m telling you, if you fetch that horse out of that lorry, if that animal sets foot on this grass, I’ll call the police,” the Park Warden yelled. “There’s no horses allowed on this common except by special permission!”

  “I’ve got special permission,” the Casting Director said.

  The Park Warden froze. “You’ve got what?”

  “I said I’ve got special permission,” the Casting Director repeated. “I’ve got special permission to film that horse on this common. It’s signed by the Borough Parks Superintendant himself.”

  There was a deep silence around the collection of vehicles whilst everyone evaluated the truth of this statement. The Park Warden stared at the Casting Director in open disbelief. It was clear that he thought it unlikely that such permission had been granted, but he could not afford to ignore the possibility that it might have been. From his position beside the horse box as self-appointed custodian of its contents he said balefully, “If you’d been given special permission to film horses on my common I’d have been told about it. Nobody’s said anything to me about special permission.”

  “Well, they’ve probably forgotten to tell you, dear, haven’t they?” Norm suggested. “I wish you’d do as you are told and get lost for a bit. We haven’t got all day, you know.”

  At this point, the efforts of the handler to lower the ramp from inside the horse box had some effect and the ramp bounced down a little way on its springs, rendering the Park Warden a glancing blow on the top of his peaked cap. Everyone tried hard to keep their faces straight, but Kevin was quite unable to control himself and let out a hoot of delight swiftly arrested by a well-aimed kick on the shin administered by one of Ted’s beaten-up suede shoes.

  The Park Warden, having repositioned himself out of range of the ramp, now produced his trump card. “If you’ve got special permission to film horses on this common,” he said triumphantly, “I want to see it!”

  “Well you can’t,” the Casting Director told him, “Because I haven’t got it. All special permissions are kept in the studio office. I don’t carry the paperwork on my person – I’m a film director, not a filing cabinet.”

  “And I’m in charge of this common,” the Park Warden declared, “and what I say is, no special permission in writing, no horses, no parking, and no filming!”

  It was an impossible situation, but so far it had been to my advantage because no horse-riding on the common meant that my lack of skill in the saddle would be undetected. Now I felt we were back where we had started, and was even about to suggest that I was filmed speeding along mounted on the Park Warden’s bicycle, but to my consternation the Casting Director, who had hitherto been the most patient and reasonable of men, abruptly decided that he had wasted enough time in fruitless negotiation and that Park Warden or no Park Warden, he was going to shoot his film. With increasing dismay I watched as he thrust his wallet back into his trouser pocket, turned to the film crew and began to rap out instructions.

  “Kevin, wipe that grin off your face and get the side of that wagon down before they suffocate in there! Ted, make sure there’s some film on the reel and get yourself and your camera in the truck! Norm, fit your neat little backside into the driving seat and get the engine running!”

  “Oh no you don’t!” the Park Warden shouted. “Not without me seeing your special permission you don’t!”

  “And who’s going to stop me?” the Casting Director enquired heavily, “Because it isn’t going to be you, and that’s a fact.”

  “Right,” the Park warden said in a strangled voice. “Right! You’ve done it now mate! Just you wait!” He made for his bicycle.

  The pace of the nightmare accelerated. In no time at all the black horse was out of the horse box having its saddle put on by the handler, Norm was in the
truck revving the engine, Ted was arranging himself and his camera half-in, half-out of the passenger seat window. Kevin stood by with his clapperboard.

  “OK, Grace Darling,” the Casting Director said, “let’s get you on board.” He gripped my elbow and steered me towards the black horse.

  I could not go through with it. I knew there was no way I could pass as a rider. “Look,” I said desperately, “I’m not ready for this. I’m upset. I’m not prepared. I haven’t brought any riding clothes with me. I can’t ride without protective headgear, it’s too dangerous. I should have a stand-in for this. Where is the co-star? Let the co-star do it!”

  The Casting Director looked at me in amazement. “What d’you mean, let the co-star do it?” he said. “The horse is the co-star!” His grip on my elbow tightened.

  The Park Warden flashed in front of us on his bicycle. His long legs plied the pedals for all they were worth. His face was quite scarlet. “I’ll soon see about special permission!” he shouted at us passionately. “I’ll soon have this sorted! And if I find you’re not legitimate when I get through to the Borough Parks Department, I’ll be back! Oh boy, will I be back!” He shot off at an abrupt tangent down one of the tarmac paths beside which there was a notice proclaiming NO CYCLING ALLOWED.

  Catastrophe was just around the corner and there was not a thing I could do to prevent it. I was helpless. The Casting Director propelled me towards the vacant saddle with steamroller determination born of many similar situations. There was no possibility of escape, or even argument. “Listen to me, Grace Darling,” he said severely, “there’s no time for you to play temperamental because you know and I know there’s no special permission been granted, and when that officious little creep finds out there’s going to be all hell let loose.”

  The handler grabbed my unwilling ankle and threw me up on to the saddle in a contemptuously cavalier manner. I wondered if I should pretend to faint, but the ground looked too far away. The black horse was big. Much, much bigger than Pedro. His neck stretched endlessly in front of me, his black coat shone like satin, his long mane was slippery, like silk. He was very, very beautiful, but I knew he would be the death of me.

  I grabbed at the reins. The handler forced my feet into the stirrup irons. He looked at me suspiciously. “I hope you’ve been properly taught,” he said in an unfriendly voice, “because I don’t allow my horses to be messed about by novices.”

  “You bet she’s been properly taught,” the Casting Director clapped him on the shoulder. “Grace Darling’s just got nerves, that’s all.” He turned his attention toward the camera crew. “Get that bus on the pavement, Norm!” he yelled. “Grace Darling’ll track the edge of the grass so you can give the camera an easy ride! Kevin, get the board in the frame then leg it in front and clear the way, we can’t afford to kill any of the populace!”

  I sat on the black horse with the unfamiliar reins in my hands trying desperately to remember all I had learned from All About Horses and Horse Riding. The handler watched me with his hateful dark, suspicious eyes. He said, “I don’t believe you can ride at all, I think you’re bluffing.” I loathed him.

  Loathing him helped a bit. It gave me back enough courage to try. ‘Turn the horse’s head towards the direction you wish to take,’ All About Horses and Horse Riding had said, ‘Then apply enough pressure with both legs to achieve forward movement.’ In print it had sounded simple. I tried it. With the left rein I turned the black horse’s beautiful head in the direction of the truck which was now waiting on the pavement. I squeezed with both legs. To my immense relief, the black horse stepped obediently forward. The handler followed alongside. “If you can’t ride, you had better say so now,” he said, “otherwise I won’t answer for the consequences.” I ignored him.

  I rode the black horse to the truck. Drawing on what I had learned from Miss Evelyn Trubshawe, I told myself to relax, to keep my legs loose and long. I placed myself in the deepest part of the saddle. If I can just stay in control, I thought, if I can just manage to stay in the saddle, I might survive this. I was frightened. I felt weak and hot. My heart was fluttering like a butterfly in a jam jar, but at that point I honestly believed there was a chance I might get away with it.

  At the truck I asked the black horse to halt. ‘Close the legs on to the horse and push him up into a fixed hand,’ my book had said, ‘but on no account should the hands be drawn backwards or exert a direct pull on the horse’s mouth.’ When I had read this I had not understood it, nor did it make sense now, but the black horse seemed to understand what was required of him and stopped. I managed to let go of the reins long enough to give him a grateful pat. The handler watched with eyes of steel. He took a whistle on a cord out of his pocket and hung it round his neck.

  The Casting Director stood on the pavement holding a loud hailer. “Now, Grace Darling, I want you to keep to the edge of the grass and stay as near to the camera as you can until I tell you otherwise. Ted will tell you what he wants, and I’ll warn you what the horse is going to do. There’s no need to give any instructions to the beast yourself because he’s trained to the whistle.”

  This was an unexpected and alarming development. I glanced down at the handler. He gave me a hostile look and placed the whistle between his teeth.

  “OK,” the Casting Director said impatiently, “let’s see some action.”

  From the truck Ted gave me a reassuring grin. He applied himself to his camera. Kevin jumped in front of the black horse with his clapperboard. The next minute, almost without knowing how I had achieved it, I was riding the black horse along the edge of the common with the truck crawling alongside and Ted’s steady voice issuing from behind the camera. “Look to the front, sweetheart… Now to me… Smile a bit… Say something to me… Now look down at the horse… Fuss over him a bit… tell him something, lean over him, whisper sweet nothings in his ears… That’s great… Stick with it…”

  “OK, cut the cackle, let’s move!” the Casting Director bellowed. There was a single, piercing blast on the whistle. The black horse swivelled a silken ear and went forward into a long-striding trot. I told myself to relax, to let my body absorb the movement. The truck accelerated along the pavement. I began to bang about uncontrollably in the saddle. “Whoa,” I said to the black horse, “slow down a bit.” He didn’t appear to hear me.

  “Get your head up, sweetheart!” Ted shouted. “Look forward! Let your hair blow back in the wind! Now look at me! Laugh at me!”

  Laughing was the last thing I felt like. I lost a stirrup. I abandoned the reins and grabbed the front of the saddle. I felt my legs stiffening. My knees were creeping up the saddle flaps.

  “OK. Let’s speed it up!” roared the Casting Director.

  Two blasts on the whistle followed. The black horse leapt forward into a canter. Wind rushed past my face. Hooves thudded on the grass. The black neck stretched ahead and the silken mane flew for the benefit of the camera, but all I could feel was the familiar, horrifying sensation of my whole body slipping to one side, towards the close-cropped, speeding turf, with no bark chippings to make for a softer landing.

  The Park Warden delivered the coup de grace. Having discovered that no special permission had been granted to film horse riding on the common, he returned with all possible speed and suddenly shot out on his bicycle from a clump of trees to my left, in order to position himself in an heroic but ill-advised manner exactly in the black horse’s path.

  The black horse faltered in his stride fractionally, but he was trained to the whistle, and blindly, faithfully obedient to it. An experienced rider might have stopped him, could perhaps have turned him, but I was in no position to impede his progress from half-way down his shoulder where I was clinging, grimly but unsuccessfully, to the slippery, satin neck. Unable to veer either to the left because of the trees, or to the right because of the cruising truck, the brave black horse took the only course of action open to him, gathered himself together, and attempted to jump the obstacles in his path.
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  He might have succeeded had not the Park Warden, his face frozen into a mask of terror, tried to drag his bicycle out of range in the final seconds before flinging himself clear. But as the black horse soared and I was catapulted on to the grass under the trees, where I landed with a breath-taking, bone-shaking impact, the bicycle moved and, as a result, took the full force of the horse’s forehand as it landed in an appalling cacophony of metallic twangings, bucklings, the pinging of spokes, and an agonized honk as the hooter was flattened by a large black hoof. To compound this double disaster the truck, in making a well-intentioned but posthumous swerve out towards the road to allow the black horse room to manoeuvre, had its progress noisily and abruptly arrested when it came into contact with the base of a concrete lamp-post.

  In the few seconds that followed one might have imagined that the whole world had come to a halt in silent sympathy. I lay on the ground too shocked and horrified to move. It crossed my mind that my injuries might be so great that I may never move again. Ahead of me, the black horse, with two of its legs imprisoned within the spokes of a bicycle wheel, hopped along the grass for a short distance then, sensibly declining to panic, came to an awkward halt and waited for outside assistance.

  Outside assistance was heralded by the sound of running feet as the world came to life. The handler arrived first, pounding past my prone form in a white-hot rage on his way to rescue the black horse. “Of all the stupid, empty-headed little fools,” he screamed as he flew by, “I knew you couldn’t ride the minute I saw you! Have you any idea how much damage you could have done? Have you any idea how much this horse is worth?”

  The Casting Director came puffing up behind, still clutching his loud-hailer. The Park Warden immediately launched into the attack. “Fifteen years I rode my old bicycle,” he shrieked, “fifteen years! Last week they gave me a new one!” He grabbed the Casting Director by the shirt-sleeve and dragged him towards the spot where the handler, with loving, soothing words, was trying to extricate the black horse from the wheels.