He cleared his throat into a wholly attentive silence. ‘This of course means that we shall have to do much more work here on location. I estimate that we will be here for at least another two weeks, as there will have to be many more scenes of Link in the car.’
Someone groaned. Evan looked fiercely in the direction of the protest, and silenced it effectively. Only Conrad made any actual comment.
‘I’m glad I’m behind the camera, and not in front of it,’ he said slowly. ‘Link’s showing wear and tear already.’
I pushed the last two bits of chicken around with my fork, not really seeing my plate. Conrad was staring across at me: I could feel his eyes. And all the others’, too. It was the actor in me, I knew, which kept them waiting while I ate a mouthful, drank some wine, and finally looked up again at Evan.
‘All right,’ I said.
A sort of quiver ran through the unit, and I realised they had all been holding their breath for the explosion of the century. But setting my own feelings aside, I had to admit that what Evan had suggested made excellent film sense, and I trusted to that instinct, if not to his humanity. There was a lot I would do, to make a good film.
He was surprised at my unconditional agreement, but also excited by it. Visions poured out of him, faster than his tongue.
‘There will be tears... and skin cracks, and sun blisters... and terrible thirst... and muscles and tendons quivering with strain like violin strings, and hands curled with cramp... and agony and frightful despair... and the scorching, inexorable, thunderous silence... and towards the end, the gradual disintegration of a human soul... so that even if he is rescued he will be different... and there won’t be a single person who sees the film who doesn’t leave exhausted and wrung out and filled with pictures he’ll never forget.’
The camera crews listened with an air of we’ve-seen-all-this-before and the make-up girl began looking particularly thoughtful. It was only I who seemed to see it from the inside looking out, and I felt a shudder go through my gut as if it had been a real dying I was to do, and not pretence. It was foolish. I shook myself; shook off the illusion of personal involvement. To be any good, acting had to be deliberate, not emotional.
He paused in his harangue, waiting with fixed gaze for me to answer him, and I reckoned that if I were not to let him stampede all over me it was time to contribute something myself.
‘Noise,’ I said calmly.
‘What...?’
‘Noise,’ I repeated. ‘He would make a noise, too, at first. Shouting for help. Shouting from fury, and hunger, and terror. Shouting his bloody head off.’
Evan’s eyes widened and embraced the truth of it.
‘Yes,’ he said. He took a deep ecstatic breath at the thought of his idea taking actual shape. ‘...Yes.’
Some of the inner furnace died down to a saner, more calculating heat.
‘Will you do it?’ he said.
I knew he meant not would I just get through the scenes somehow, but would I put into them the best I could. And he might well ask, after his behaviour to me that day. I would, I thought; I would make it bloody marvellous; but I answered him flippantly.
‘There won’t be a dry eye in the house.’
He looked irritated and disappointed, which would do no harm. The others relaxed and began talking, but some undercurrent of excitement had awoken, and it was the best evening we had had since we arrived.
So we went back to the desert plain for another two weeks, and it was lousy, but the glossy little adventure turned into an eventual box-office blockbuster which even the critics seemed to like.
I got through the whole fortnight with my temper intact; and in consequence Conrad, who had guessed right, won his bet and scooped the pool.
Chapter Two
England in August seemed green and cool in comparison when I got back. At Heathrow I collected my car, a production line B.M.W., darkish blue, ordinarily jumbled registration number, nothing Special about it, and drove westwards into Berkshire with a feeling of ease.
Four o’clock in the afternoon.
Going home.
I found myself grinning at nothing in particular. Like a kid out of school, I thought. Going home to a summer evening.
The house was middle-sized, part old, part new, built on a gentle slope outside a village far up the Thames. There was a view down over the river, and lots of evening sun, and an unsignposted lane to approach by, that most people missed.
There was a boy’s bicycle lying half on the grass, half on the drive, and some gardening tools near a half weeded flower-bed. I stopped the car outside the garage, looked at the shut front door, and walked round the house to the back.
I saw all four of them before they saw me; like looking in through a window. Two small boys splashing in the pool with a black and white beach ball. A slightly faded sun umbrella nearby, with a little girl lying on an air bed in its shade. A young woman with short chestnut hair, sitting on a rug in the sun, hugging her knees.
One of the boys looked up and saw me standing watching them from across the lawn.
‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Dad’s home,’ and ducked his brother.
I walked towards them, smiling. Charlie unstuck herself from the rug and came unhurriedly to meet me.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m covered in oil.’ She put her mouth forward for a kiss and held my face between the insides of her wrists.
‘What on earth have you been doing with yourself?’ she asked. ‘You look terribly thin.’
‘It was hot in Spain,’ I said. I walked back to the pool beside her, stripping off my loosened tie, and then my shirt.
‘You didn’t get very sunburned.’
‘No... Sat in the car most of the time...’
‘Did it go all right?’
I made a face. ‘Time will tell... How are the kids?’
‘Fine.’
I had been away a month. It might have been a day. Any father coming home to his family after a day’s work.
Peter levered himself out of the pool via his stomach and splashed across the grass.
‘What did you bring us?’ he demanded.
‘Pete, I’ve told you...’ Charlie said, exasperated. ‘If you ask, you won’t get.’
‘You won’t get much this time anyway,’ I told him. ‘We were miles from any decent shops. And go and pick your bike up off the drive.’
‘Oh honestly,’ he said. ‘The minute you’re home, we’ve done something wrong.’ He retreated round the house, his backview stiff with protest.
Charlie laughed. ‘I’m glad you’re back...’
‘Me too.’
‘Dad, look at me. Look at me do this, Dad.’
I obediently watched while Chris turned some complicated sort of somersault over the beach ball and came up with a triumphant smile, shaking water out of his eyes and waiting for praise.
‘Jolly good,’ I said.
‘Watch me again, Dad...’
‘In a minute.’
Charlie and I walked over to the umbrella, and looked down at our daughter. She was five years old, brown-haired, and pretty. I sat down beside the air bed and tickled her tummy. She chuckled, and smiled at me deliciously.
‘How’s she been?’
‘Same as usual.’