Terry, what’s the hurry, me old cock?’
Terry swung around. Jerry Massingham, astride a bicycle, was pedalling down the road as if his life depended on it, his red hair mussed by the light breeze, his coat flapping out behind him. Dressed in an unsuitable heavy tweed suit, a Viyella shirt and a canary-yellow wool tie, Jerry looked like a country doctor on his morning rounds.
‘Good God, Jerry, this is one way to make certain you get a heart attack!’ Terry said as the production manager slowed to a stop and jumped off the bicycle. ‘And what the hell are you doing rushing up and down the country lanes on a bloody bike in the first place?’
‘I like riding a bike, it’s good exercise,’ Jerry informed him, a wide grin creasing his flushed face. He fell into step with Terry, wheeling the bicycle between them. ‘I had to get to the post office before it closed, to send an express package to London. There weren’t any production cars available an hour ago. The second unit’s using them. They’re out on the moors, getting some background shots. And what are you doing abroad at this hour? Taking a constitutional?’
‘I also went to post a letter, and to buy a paper. Besides, it’s turned eleven.’ He gave Jerry a swift look, finished caustically, ‘I don’t normally spend my mornings liggin in bed, contrary to what you might think.’
‘What does liggin mean?’
‘It’s Yorkshire dialect for lying – as in lying in bed wasting the day away.’
‘Is it now. Humph. No offence intended, laddie. I mean about being out and about at this hour. I was merely surprised to see you, considering how whacked you looked at two this morning. Mind you, the night shooting was gruelling, especially hard on you and Katharine. Come to think of it, the rest of the cast were pretty done in by the time we finished. Or so it appeared. Actually, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a single actor this morning. Usually they’re milling around the hotel when we’re not filming. Have you run into any of your confrères perchance?’
‘No, I haven’t perchance,’ Terry responded with a chortle. ‘I did speak to Katharine earlier, on the ’phone. She sounded full of beans, as usual. She told me half the cast have gone off on a picnic, up to Middleham Castle in Wensleydale. Shades of Richard III, no doubt. He was born there, you know.’
‘They must be made of iron.’
‘Stamina is an actor’s stock in trade, Jerry.’
‘True enough. But a picnic. Ugh! Jolly good luck to them! I saw you do Richard III. At Stratford. Memorable, Terry, memorable.’
‘Thanks, Jerry. It’s a bloody tough role.’
‘Mmmm. Funny though, how you make it look so easy.’ The production manager glanced at Terry and said, ‘We got some damned good footage in the can last night, and providing there are no more mishaps, and the weather holds, we should be able to get out of here next Friday, as planned. That should make you delirious.’
Terry threw Jerry a baffled look. ‘I haven’t minded being on location, mate. As a matter of fact, I’ve quite enjoyed it this time around. I was pretty miserable when we were here in May, but then who wasn’t, with all that rain. Getting sodden to the skin every day is hardly my idea of a joyride.’
Jerry laughed at Terry’s dour expression, his glum delivery. ‘Nor mine. And I wasn’t singling you out in any sense,’ he remarked. ‘We’ll all be glad to get back to London and the studios. A week of final interiors and then it’s a wrap.’
Terry eyed him, a faint smile flickering. ‘Still, despite the problems, and the weather, we’re on schedule and within the budget. That should make you delirious, Jerry.’
‘It does.’ He leaned across the bicycle, and said, ‘You’ve been a real trouper, Terry, taking so much rotten flak from Mark Pierce as good-naturedly as you have. He’s a difficult bugger.’
‘But a great director. I simply put it down to the temperament of a genius. And to be fair, he’s been hard on the entire cast, as well as on me. They’ve been troupers too.’
‘Yes,’ Jerry said quietly. He thought: But Mark’s had his knife in you and to the hilt. He had his own ideas about the real cause of the trouble between the actor and the director. Victor was suspicious and had attempted to get to the root of it, without success. Too much tension, too many undercurrents on this film, Jerry said inwardly. I’ll be relieved when the last bloody frame has been shot.
‘I heard a rumour you’re going to be on the Bolding picture, Jerry. True or false?’
‘Affirmative, old boy. And I’m looking forward to it. A classy production. Shooting in the South of France later this summer. Good cast too.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘And you? Anything in the offing?’
‘A couple of things,’ Terry said cautiously. ‘A play in the West End for starters, if I want it.’
‘Stick to films from now on, Terry,’ the production man advised. ‘You can really cut it, and you come off well on the screen. When I saw the rushes I was most impressed. You’ve brought something very special to the role of Edgar Linton, given it dimension and stature.’
‘Thanks. That’s nice to hear. Especially from you. Getting it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’
Jerry smiled but said nothing and the two men walked on in silence. Within a couple of minutes they reached the entrance to the hotel grounds, and ambled through the gates and up the short driveway. As they drew closer to the front steps of the Spa Hotel, both of them stopped short and glanced at each other swiftly.
‘Our star departs!’ Terry said.
‘Looks like it.’ Jerry’s response was gruff and a flash of annoyance replaced his startled expression as he surveyed the scene ahead. Victor Mason’s gleaming wine-coloured Bentley Continental was parked in front of the door, and Gus was loading the boot with Victor’s expensive luggage.
‘I thought he wasn’t leaving until next week,’ Terry said.
‘So did I. Tuesday to be precise.’
At this moment Jake Watson came through the door and hurried down the steps, his arms laden with cans of film. He carried these to the car and placed them inside on the back seat. Turning, he saw them and waved. ‘Hi, you guys!’
‘’Morning, Jake,’ Jerry said, moving forward quickly, pushing the bicycle.
‘Good morning.’ Terry returned Jake’s wave and grinned. ‘Are we losing our star?’
Jake nodded. ‘Yep. Victor’s about to leave for London.’
‘I wish to hell you’d told me!’ Massingham exclaimed heatedly, his face colouring. ‘If I’d known earlier it would have saved me the bother of getting that package of documents to the post office. Victor could have taken it with him,’ he groused. ‘Racing up and down the roads on this bloody thing is all I need this morning.’ He stomped off to park the bicycle, bristling.
‘Don’t get so hot under the collar, Jer,’ Jake soothed, staring after him, recognizing his nose was out of joint. He probably thought he had been cut out of some top-level decision-making. ‘Victor only decided to beat it an hour ago. I came looking for you, as soon as I knew about his change in plan, but you’d already split.’
‘When’s he coming back? Correction. He’s not, if the luggage is anything to go by,’ Jerry muttered, swinging around to face Jake, glaring at him.
‘That’s right.’
‘It was my understanding Mark needed Victor for an extra scene on Monday,’ Terry remarked carefully, his curiosity aroused.
‘Mark changed his mind,’ Jake said, deciding it would be more discreet to tamper with the truth than tell it the way it really was. ‘He had a breakfast meeting