by Dick Francis
Howard was forty-five.
“When you bitched to Alison,” I asked, “why did she get your complaints printed in the Drumbeat! And how?”
He stood up abruptly. “I didn't know she was going to do it. I didn't ask her to. If you want to know, I was shocked when I read the paper. I didn't mean what I said to her to be published like that.”
“Have you talked to her since?”
He said defensively, “She thought she was helping me.”
“Shit,” I said.
He took offence and stalked off, heading for the way out to the world.
With a feeling of medium irritation I went upstairs and found my message light flashing. O'Hara, it seemed, would be pleased by my appearance in his suite.
I walked the carpeted passages. “Did you know,” he asked, opening his door to my knock, “that Howard is back?”
We discussed Howard. O'Hara's use of words was profligate.
“Howard told me,” I said, only half successfully damming O'Hara's flow, “that he poured out his woes to a lady friend who promptly relayed them to the Drumbeat but without his knowledge.”
I told O'Hara about the Visboroughs.
He repeated in disbelief, “Audrey, Alison and Roddy?”
“And God knows who else.”
“Howard,” he pronounced heavily, “is off his trolley.”
“He's naive. Doesn't make him a bad writer.”
O'Hara agreed gloomily. “Dream lovers are naive.” He thought things over. “I'll have to discuss his breach of contract again with the moguls. I suppose you've never met this disastrous Alison?”
I shook my head.
“Someone will have to switch on her lights.”
“Mm,” I paused. “You?”
O'Hara ducked it. “What time do you have, yourself?”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “We know her opinion of me.”
“All the same,” O'Hara smiled, “if you want to, you can charm the birds off the trees.”
“I don't know where she lives.”
“I'll find out,” he promised, “and you can do the damage control.”
He seemed all of a sudden happier. Suing Howard would have dragged on and on and could well have alienated the very lending-library customers his name was supposed to attract into the cinema. Never attack anyone, old Valentine had once written, unless you've counted the cost of winning.
O'Hara asked if I'd found Jackson Wells, but seemed disappointed in the sweetness and light of his household.
“Do you think he murdered his wife?” he, asked curiously.
“No one could ever prove it.”
“But do you think he did?”
I paused. “I don't know.”
O'Hara shrugged the thought away and, as he wanted to see the previous day's rushes, we drove along to the stable yard. There, in the vast house, one small room had been rigged for projection, with a screen and six chairs but no luxury. The windows were blacked out to foil peepers, and the reels of previously printed film were secured in racks in there by every fancy lock and fireproofing invented. The moguls had in this case spent lavishly: no one could afford to start shooting all over again.
That morning I worked the projector myself. O'Hara sat impassively while the horses galloped up the training hill and breasted it into sunlight. I'd been right, I saw, about the third attempt, and my flourish of trumpets looked great. Moncrieff had stopped the cameras after that. The only shot left on the reel was the one I'd made myself; the line of horses on the skyline, black against sunshine. The worst of luck, I thought, that with all that raw film in our possession, we had no footage at all that included the rider whose frightful knife had slashed at Ivan.
O'Hara cursed over it, but hindsight, as always, was an unfruitful regret.
I left that reel for the regular projectionist to rewind, and set going the stuff we'd done later, the 'first meeting' of Nash and Silva.
As always with dailies, the sound quality was imperfect; marrying the eventual soundtrack to the pictures came later, in the post-production stage. Dailies, in any case, with two or three or more takes printed of a single scene, could only be judged by experts, rather like wine buyers discerning an eventual vintage in the harsh juice straight from fermentation. O'Hara even made appropriate sucking noises with his teeth as he watched Silva jokingly rein-in her horse, nearly knocking down Nash as he, the trainer, stood near his own horses; watched her dismount, jerk off her helmet and speak her lines with the character's initial aggravation awakening to quick sexual interest; watched the smile curve the blissful mouth in a way that would quadruple her sticker price next time out.
“Good girl,” O'Hara murmured, pleased.
Nash, bareheaded in riding clothes, did his own lines in platinum, close to priceless.
Howard, goaded into writing this scene, which had of course not appeared in the book, had nevertheless written exchanges of a quality entirely to justify his high placing in the film's credits. Moncrieff had lit the faces with creative skill and had, as agreed, shot the horses slightly out of focus to give sharp prominence to each human figure in close-up. Somehow the uncaring, oblivious nature of the horses lent contrast and comment to the vivid emotion developing near them. A brief, fleeting impression, but an addition to the mood. Not bad, overall.
The reel ended, I switched the projector off and the regular lights on and waited for O'Hara's verdict.
“Tell you something,” he said casually, “if you're not careful we'll have a success on our hands.”
“A bit early to say.” I was pleased, all the same, at his compliment.
“How do you get on personally with Silva?” O'Hara asked, standing and stretching, preparing to leave.
“She does ride very well,” I said. “I told her that I thought so.”
“And you did not, I hope, tell her she rides as well as any man.”
I laughed. “I'm not suicidal.”
“She looks good on screen.”
I nodded. “You were right, she can act. She knows where the camera is. She's professional, she listens to me, she did the nude scene on the closed set last week with cool naturalness, she's ambitious in a sensible way and I can tiptoe round the feminism.”
“And do you like her?”
“It's not necessary.”
“No, but do you?”
I smiled. “If I told her I liked her she'd smack my face.”
“That's no answer.”
“Then yes, I do like her. Actually, very much. But she doesn't want to be liked. She wants to be thought a good actress. Which she is. A merry-go-round, don't you think?”
“She's sleeping with me,” O'Hara said.
I looked, in a moment of stillness, at the craggy strength of his face and physique, understood the magnetic sexual quality of power, and said without resentment, “Are you telling me, hands off?”
He calmly nodded. “Hands off.”
He made no more of it. It altered little. We went upstairs to see how far the art director and his department had gone with dismantling the Jockey Club enquiry-room set, ready to construct an approximation of the Athenaeum dining-room in the space.
Several of the upstairs walls had earlier been removed, with steel joists now holding up the roof. Many of the ceilings also had been cut out to allow for overhead lights and cameras. The house's owner was warming himself with his nicely stuffed bank account while trusting his beams and plaster would reassert themselves later.
The Athenaeum dining-room remained embryonic but would be ready with tables, waiters and roast beef on our return from Huntingdon.
O'Hara said, “I met Moncrieff in the passage at the hotel this morning after you returned from the ocean. Incredibly, he was humming. He said he'd seen a revelation and that you were sending Ziggy to import a herd of wild horses from Norway. Say it's not true.”
I laughed. “It's true. Viking horses. If we have ten or twelve, we can make them look like fifty. I'll send Ziggy with an agent to fi
nd some. They'll come over in horseboxes on the ferry from Bergen.”
“But,” O'Hara asked reasonably, “wouldn't it be cheaper to use local wild horses?”
“First of all,” I said, “there aren't any. Second, genuine Viking horses will be worth their weight in publicity.”
O'Hara picked his way across wobbling scraps of scenery and stood looking out of a high window at the grey-green expanse of the Heath. He turned eventually: I couldn't see his expression against the light.
“I'll arrange it,” he said. “I'll send Ziggy. You just get on with the movie.”
I said with satisfaction, “Right,” and we made our way as colleagues down to the stable yard, signing out as usual with the guard on the outer door and crossing to the car.
“Did you know,” I said conversationally, “that they used to hang witches?”
O'Hara stopped in mid-stride and after a pause said, “Howard didn't suggest such a thing in the book, did he?”
“No. I'm surprised, really, that he didn't. It would have gelled with the dream lovers, don't you think?”
O'Hara blinked.
“The last witch was hanged in Merrie England in 1685,” I said. “By then they had strung up over a thousand people accused of witchcraft, mostly women. I looked it up. Witchcraft itself went on for a long time after that. Goya was painting witches flying, around the year eighteen hundred. People still follow the old practices to this day. I'd think it improbable that a witch-hanging took place in Newmarket only twenty-six years ago, but there's no harm in Howard inserting a scene or two to sow doubt.”
CHAPTER NINE
Unexpectedly glad after all to have a driver, I travelled to Huntingdon making notes for the rehearsals ahead and thinking over my second conversation with Howard. He had been in his room when I returned with O'Hara and had agreed to come along to my sitting-room, but with bad grace.
“Howard,” I pointed out, “your name is immovable on this film. You can write brilliantly. Whether or not you disapprove of its plot, the words in this film are mostly yours, and you'11 he judged by them.”
“Some are yours,” he objected.
“I prefer yours. I only write what you won't.”
He could glare, but not dispute it.
“So,” I said without fuss, “please will you write a scene suggesting that the dead wife was hanged for being a witch.”
He was outraged. “But she wasn't a witch.”
“How do you know?”
“She was Audrey Visborough's sister!” His tone said that that settled matters beyond doubt.
“Think it over, Howard. Put the thought into someone's mouth. Into someone's head. Just a shot of a magazine article might do the trick. Headline - "Is witchcraft dead?" Something like that. But don't place your scene in the Jockey Club enquiry room, they've already struck that set.”
Howard looked as if he might comply: he even looked interested.
“Her real name was Sonia,” I said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Did the Visboroughs tell you?”
“Why shouldn't they?” His prickles rose protectively. “They were all very helpful.”
I forbore to say that the Drumbeat was as unhelpful as one could get, and went on my way.
My assistant director, Ed, who normally had one assistant of his own, now had, as usual for crowd scenes, several extra deputised helpers. The townspeople of Huntingdon, having streamed to the racecourse in highly satisfactory numbers, were being divided, positioned and generally jollied along by Ed who had been given, and had passed on, my emphatic instruction that the people who had come should be happy, and should want to return the next day, and the next. Lollipops were to be dangled. Fun was to be had. Nash - ah, Nash himself - would sign autographs now and then.
The people in charge of Huntingdon racecourse had been welcoming and obliging. Contracts, payment, insurance, safety precautions, police: all had been arranged. Provided we finished and vacated the place by Friday, they would give us, if they could, everything we asked for. Repairs, if any were needed, could then be done before they opened the gates to bona fide racing the following Monday.
Our horses, our jockeys, our crowds, our drama, had realistically to play their parts by Thursday evening. Tight, but possible.
I prayed for it not to rain.
Ed chose people to stand in the parade ring in groups, looking like owners and trainers. Others were directed to crowd round and stare. Genuine professional steeplechase jockeys appeared in the parade ring in racing colours and scattered to each group. They weren't the absolute top jockeys, but tough, reliably expert and being well paid. Our lads led round the horses, saddled, rugged and carrying number cloths. It all began to look like a race meeting.
The real thing, of course, would be filmed separately on the following Monday, with Ed in charge of wide, establishing shots of full stands, large crowd movement and bookmakers shouting the odds. Cut in with our own scenes, the joins of real to acted would be invisible - given no rain.
Gibber stood in the parade ring with his wife (Silva), and I positioned Hash's stand-in within easy scowling distance. Moncrieff rolled his camera around on a dolly to get interesting architectural background. It all, as ever, took time, but as soon as possible I sent the townspeople home. Boredom was my enemy; bore them, and they wouldn't return. Every child received a helium balloon on leaving (unstable times in blue on silver), given with jokes and thanks.
The jockeys had been asked to stay in the parade ring for a briefing. I found them standing stiffly in a group there, their attitude distrustful and surly.
Not understanding this, I began, “Just pretend it's a normal race tomorrow. Do everything you normally do on the way down to the start.”
One of them almost belligerently interrupted, “Is it true you raced once as an amateur?”
“Well, yes, for three seasons.”
“Why did you stop?”
I frowned. It wasn't their business to ask such questions, and certainly not like an inquisition, but I needed their cooperation, so I said mildly, “I went to Hollywood to make films of horses instead.”
“What's the matter?” I asked.
After a long pause, one of them told me, “It says about you in the Drumbeat...”
“Ah.” Light arrived. I looked at the cool faces, all highly cynical. I needed these jockeys to ride their hearts out the next day; and I could see with absolute clarity that they weren't going to.
How odd, I thought, that I'd feared losing my authority over the film crews, but in fact had had little difficulty in re-establishing it, only to find now that I'd lost it among men I thought I understood. I asked if they'd watched the Lincoln and seen me talking to Greg Compass. None had. They'd been too busy working, they said. They'd been riding in races.
I said, “If any of you has doubts about doing a good job for me tomorrow, I'll race him here and now.”
I didn't know I was going to say it until I did. Once said, there was no going back.
They stared.
I said, “I'm not incompetent or a buffoon or a tyrant. Newspapers tell lies. Surely you know?”
They loosened up a little and a few began staring at their boots instead of my face, but one of them slowly and silently unbuttoned his shiny green and white striped shirt. He took it off and held it out. Underneath he wore the usual thin blue sweater, with a white stock round his neck.
I undipped the walkie-talkie from my belt and whistled up Ed.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In the stables.”
“Good. Send three of the horses back, will you, with racing saddles and bridles, each led by a lad.”
“Sure. Which three?”
“The three fastest,” I said. “And find the doctor we brought with us. Ask him to come to the parade ring.”
“You don't have to be an effing hero,” one of the jockeys said. “We get your point.”
The one who'd removed his colours, however, still held
them out as a challenge.
I unzipped my navy windproof jacket, took it off, and dropped it on the grass. I pulled off my sweater, ditto, and unbuttoned my shirt, which followed. I wore no jersey underneath, but I didn't feel my bare skin chill in the wind: too much else to think about. I put on the offered green and white stripes and pointed to the stock. Silently, it was handed over, and I tied it neatly, thanking my stars that I remembered how.
As it had been only a rehearsal that afternoon, and all on foot, no one carried a whip and none of the jockeys was wearing the normal shock-absorbing body protector that shielded fallen riders from horses' hooves. No one mentioned this absence. I buttoned the shirt and pushed the tails down inside my trousers; and I was passed a crash helmet with a scarlet cap.
Ed, in the distance, was walking back with three horses.
Moncrieff suddenly arrived at my elbow and demanded, “What in hell are you doing?”
“Going for a ride.” I put on the helmet and left the strap hanging.
“You can't!”
“Be a pal and don't film it in case I fall off.”
Moncrieff threw his arms out and appealed to the jockeys. “You can't let him. Tell him to stop.”
“They've read the Drumbeat,” I said succinctly, “and do we want one hell of a race tomorrow, or do we not?”
Moncrieff understood all right, but made ineffectual noises about insurance, and moguls, and O'Hara, and what would happen to the movie if I broke my neck.
“Do shut up,” I said.
I grinned at him. I said to the jockeys, “Two of you might care to race with me. Sorry I can't take you all on, but we have to race the whole string tomorrow and they'll need to be fresh. So just two. Whoever you like. We'll go one circuit over the fences, not the hurdles, just as long as there's no one roaming about on the course where they shouldn't be.”
Privately amused, I waited until Ed had drawn near with the horses and had got over his shock at my explicit clothes.
“Ed, get a car out onto that road beside the far rails,” I showed him where, “and drive round behind us. Take our doctor with you in case one of us falls.” I pointed. “There he is. He's coming now.”
