Catch a Falling Star (The Silver Bridle Book 3) Read online

  by

  Caroline Akrill

  First published 1988 by Armada

  1993 J A Allen & Co Ltd as The Silver Bridle

  This ebook edition 2015

  Copyright © Caroline Akrill

  The right of Caroline Akrill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction.

  The author would like to stress that that no character in this book relates to any person living or dead and that all incidents are entirely imaginary.

  Other books by Caroline Akrill

  Non-fiction:

  Not Quite a Horsewoman

  Showing the Ridden Pony

  Fiction:

  Eventer’s Dream

  A Hoof in the Door

  Ticket to Ride

  Make Me a Star

  Stars Don’t Cry

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  An Interview with Caroline Akrill

  >>> It was quite a relief when the screaming stopped.

  Not that it had been a solo performance, accompanied as it was by the unspeakable banshee howling of the sirens, the confusion and the shouting, with blue lights flashing hysterical messages into the darkness, illuminating the traffic police as they raced to and fro in the driving rain hurling out fluorescent orange cones to warn other road users who, with skidding tyres and protesting brakes, threatened any second to turn a catastrophe into a holocaust.

  All the same, it was a relief when it stopped.

  I had not been able to identify the screamer, being under the green Renault, or what was left of it, at the time, pinned to the road and entangled with an unfortunate amount of twisted metal; but because there was no pain to speak of, only a creeping numbness and some understandable discomfort due to the cold and the rain, I was able to lie there and watch the goings-on in a relatively calm, almost detached manner, not even unduly perturbed by the tang of spilled petrol and burning rubber in my nostrils, or the fact that from somewhere behind my head came the constant, angry hiss of escaping steam.

  Rescue came in a shockingly abrupt manner when my worm’s eye view was replaced by the blinding glare of an arc light. Despite the circumstances, it was unwelcome, offensive almost. Like someone turning off the television set when you are engrossed in a programme, then compounding the insult by switching on bright, overhead lights.

  I squinted and blinked. As my eyes refocussed, a fireman’s helmet appeared and under it a face, streaked with motor grease, dripping rain from the chin. Promises were made.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart. We’ll have you out of there in no time. You’re going to be okay. Hold on, there’s a good girl.”

  As a preliminary to getting me out in no time the Renault was sprayed with icy water. A lot of it went over me. I didn’t like it, but there was worse to come. If lying under the wreckage listening to the screamer had been disquieting, being rescued was much, much worse.

  The cutting equipment was the worst part. Never had my flesh felt more soft and vulnerable than when the sparking, whining cutter came close. I could no longer feel the lower half of my body but I desperately wanted to keep it intact. I wanted to shout out, to beg them to be careful, to implore them not to cut so close, but acetylene hissed and metal screamed and who would have heard me?

  Despite the numbness and the tangle of twisted metal I tried to pull myself away. I struggled and strained. I would have done anything to get my body free but strong hands took hold of my shoulders and pressed them into the road. Now I was helpless and I panicked. My heart thumped against my ribs and breathing became an effort. All I could do was clench my fists, screw up my eyes and wait for the cutter to stop, or slip, sliding into my trunk as effortlessly as a spoon into trifle.

  It seemed to me that I had been lying there for hours before the whine of the cutter finally died into silence. I was almost past caring by this time but aware of being moved in an experimental manner and afterwards, lifted. Professionally capable hands arranged me on a stretcher and wrapped me in a blanket which, without even opening my eyes to look, I knew would be red. Red so as not to show the blood. Like the jackets of the infantrymen. Like the decks of HMS Victory.

  The stretcher rose into the air. My bearers negotiated the wreckage. At one point I believe I was even passed over the top of a car. But eventually the ambulance was reached, the stretcher was slotted into runners and pushed inside. It was a blessed relief to be rescued, to know I was still in one piece, to have the whole nightmare business over.

  Or at least, nearly over…

  Because just before the doors of the ambulance closed, I heard a voice I recognized as that of the fireman who had promised I would be out in no time.

  He was speaking to an unknown, unseen person, and he said, “Did you see the way she was lying? The angle of her legs? That poor little devil’s never going to walk again, I’d lay a month’s wages on it.” <<<

  The stretcher was surprisingly comfortable. The darkness, after my rude exposure to the arc light and the acetylene burner, soothing. I could have slept but there was to be no chance of that. Almost immediately there was a thunderous hammering on the side of the ambulance.

  “OK Grace Darling,” the Assistant Director shouted. “That’s it for tonight! It’s a wrap!”

  Reluctantly I sat up and disentangled myself from the blanket. The doors opened to reveal a scene of considerable activity in the road. A garage recovery vehicle was winching up the mangled Renault. Props were sweeping up the broken glass. The fire brigade, who had supplied the rain as well as the rescue service, were hosing away oil and stage gore. Cameras were being dismantled, tracking rails taken up, booms lowered, lights extinguished.

  “Come on, Grace Darling. Time for bed. Let’s get you home.” The Director appeared, his mackintosh streaked and crumpled, his trainers sodden, his bald head shining wet.

  I sat on the edge of the stretcher, unwilling to move. Exhaustion made me irritable. “I won’t be able to sleep. I shall have nightmares for weeks. Nobody warned me about the cutting equipment.”

  The Director leaned into the ambulance and took me firmly by the elbow. He manhandled my stiff and unwilling body on to the road and, maintaining a grip which allowed no room for evasion, steered me in and out of the activity towards a minibus where the rest of the actors were already waiting.

  “Now why would anybody want to warn you about the cutting equipment, Grace Darling, why would they do that? Don’t you know there’s nothing like a little genuine fear to help an actress along, especially when she’s a novice?”

  “I’m not a novice,” I told him. “You’re not dealing with an amateur. I don’t know why I have to keep reminding you I’m a trained professional.”

  I had already lost one shoe in the rescue and now kicked off the other in disgust. The Director bundled me up the steps into the minibus in a no-nonsense manner.

  “Pleased to hear it, Grace Darling, pleased to hear it. So you won’t be surprised to hear you’ve got to be at Television City at five in the morning to shoot the flying horse sequence. You don’t need to set your alarm, I’ve organized you a call for four.”

  “A call for four!” From the top of the steps I stared down at him in anguish. “But it’s half
-past two already and I’m nowhere near my bed yet!”

  The Director’s round, upturned face regarded me in a solemn manner. “Well, I guess it’s things like this that sort out the amateurs from the trained professionals.” He slid the door shut.

  I groaned aloud as I flopped into the nearest seat.

  “Grace… I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but you’re very wet, and you also look a bit... The truth is I’m feeling very nauseous. I think I must have picked up a bug or something.” A bit-part actress, whose intense pallor was not entirely due to the fact that she was made up to look like a fatality in the accident, grinned at me weakly.

  A bug on the film set was the last thing we wanted. I got up hastily and made my way towards the back of the bus where the seats were empty. I realized I must look absolutely hideous because my clothes were filthy, torn and soaked, and most of my anatomy, including my hair through to my scalp, was plastered with stage blood.

  As I passed her seat, Camilla Cook, a survivor of the crash (although I would have preferred her killed off in the first frame), pulled a face.

  “God, you look disgusting. Pity Anthony Sylvester can’t see you now.”

  I ignored her but she was not to be discouraged so easily.

  “You can’t deny there’s something going on. I’m not stupid. I have got eyes in my head, you know.”

  “So have I, and I can see you’ve helped yourself to all the blankets – there are other people working on this film you know!” I removed a plaid travelling rug from her knees and retreated to the back seat. I was not going to be drawn on the subject of Anthony Sylvester, especially at half-past two in the morning.

  “I hope you heard me screaming. Melvyn said I was absolutely brilliant. He said it went through him like a knife.”

  I did not doubt it. I might have guessed Camilla had been the screamer. I wrapped myself in the rug and sat down by the window wondering how I was going to face Television City on just one hour’s sleep.

  Camilla’s head appeared over the top of her seat. “I’ll just say this, Grace. If you are involved with Anthony Sylvester, I’d watch my step if I were you. He’s a pretty hot property for someone who’s still wet behind the ears from drama school.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said wearily. “I’ll remember that.”

  “You don’t have to. When you’re in trouble I’ll be sure to remind you.”

  “I bet you will.”

  The driver took his seat and slid the door closed. I looked out of the window as the minibus drew away, skirting the fire engine, the water tender, the lighting unit, the mobile video unit, the technicians rolling up their cables, the grips taking up the last of the tracking rails; threading its way through the police cars and accident signs, passing the fluorescent cones arranged to divert bona fide motorists from a far from bona fide accident, for news of which they would scan their local papers in vain.

  My first taste of filming. My first part. A shattering experience in every way.

  I hardly seemed to have closed my eyes before the four o’clock call arrived in the shape of Kevin, the Location Runner, or gofer as he was known on set, thumping on the plank door of my bedroom, rattling the latch, shouting through the keyhole in his typically uncouth way. Unbearable and impossible to ignore.

  I blundered out into the unlit car park of the Sow and Pigs, the hostelry taken over by the Ace Television Company for the duration of location filming in the village, feeling desperate. Huge vehicles loomed. I could distinguish the mobile video unit, the lighting unit, the converted double-decker bus utilized as a chuck wagon, and any number of back-up vehicles. All were dark and silent. But the minibus was waiting with its engine running and the Director hopping up and down the steps in an agony of impatience.

  “Get a move on, Grace Darling, what kept you? Don’t you know we’re on a tight schedule here? Did nobody tell you?”

  Once again I was bundled up the steps. The bleary-eyed skeleton crew who were assembled within just managed to acknowledge my arrival. The Assistant Director was stretched out across the back seats, still wearing the patched jeans and furred, misshapen jersey he had been wearing whilst shooting the accident. Unshaven, hair on end, he puffed and whistled in his sleep like a steam train.

  The only available seat was next to Kevin, whose facial eruptions glistened with freshly-applied medication and who was revoltingly wide-awake. Throughout the journey, between infantile remarks, he munched his way through endless packets of potato crisps filched from the public bar of the Sow and Pigs, and would have blown up and banged every bag except that the Lighting Cameraman leaned over the seat and boxed his ears after the first explosion.

  Sleep was impossible, but mercifully the journey was short. After little more than half an hour the minibus was passing through a security check at the entrance to Television City, a mammoth purpose-built development on the outskirts of London.

  We stumbled out into the sharp, early morning air and entered a vast reception hall, teeming with people despite the fact that it felt like the middle of the night. We climbed a wide staircase lined with blown-up photographs of recognizable television personalities.

  The Director pointed me in the direction of Dressing Room Number 105 and bustled the crew up another flight of stairs towards Studio Number 8.

  Dressing Room Number 105 contained a formica dressing table set in front of a large mirror (disappointingly lit by fluorescent tubes rather than rows of light bulbs), a chair with a red plastic seat, a narrow divan disguised as a couch with a stretch nylon cover and cushions, a clothes rack with wire hangers, and Lesley.

  Lesley was a make-up artist who lived just down the road from Television City, which was very convenient considering the unconventional hours she was often called upon to work. She was tall and bony and wore a black nylon overall and black boots with long pointed toes. Her skin was chalk-white, her eyes hollowed out with kohl, and her dyed black hair was teased out into spikes, the ends of which were dyed purple to match the colour of her sharpened fingernails. When I saw her I almost screamed, but then so did she.

  “Gawd!” she shrieked. “Nobody told me I had to be a flamin’ ’airdresser as well!”

  She grabbed my wrist and dragged me off down the corridors to Hairdressing which, not surprisingly at such an unearthly hour, was unstaffed and empty. I was pushed into a chair and had my head shoved backwards into a basin. The water was too cold and then too hot. The sharpened fingernails scratched my scalp. I moaned but Lesley had her job to do and she was merciless.

  With a towel wrapped round my head, soap in my ears and water running down my neck, I was dragged further along the corridors to Make-Up where Lesley fixed up a hand dryer and blow-dried my hair, which under the terms of my contract with ATC I was forbidden to cut. Now it was longer than I had ever worn it, half way down my back, and no easy matter to dry quickly. Lesley pulled and stretched it over brushes and swore and I steeled myself not to cry out in agony, closed my eyes, and thought how different life as an actress was from how I had expected it to be. Lesley’s gothic face was inches from mine as, having already slapped on layers of base make-up, face shapers and powder, she now applied a thin worm of latex to the edge of some extravagant fur lashes and stuck them with unerring accuracy on to my eyelids.

  I was awake by this time and ready to sell my soul for a cup of coffee but when I enquired about the possibility of obtaining one, Lesley pursed her chalky lips and said if I thought she was going to be waitress as well as ’airdresser and make-up artist I must be off my trolley; didn’t I know I was due in the flamin’ studio five minutes ago? Who did I take her for, Superwoman?

  There was nothing for it but to sit and submit to a battalion of brushes as, black-rimmed eyes deadly with concentration, Lesley outlined and filled in my lips, blotted and glossed; painted and shadowed my eyes; dusted my face with highlights and finally, made up my feet.

  The latter came as a surprise and I was glad that exhausted as I had been after filming, I
had managed to summon enough energy to climb into a bath – the Sow and Pigs did not boast a shower – even if I had neglected to wash my hair.

  After that it was back along the corridors to Dressing Room Number 105 where I was commanded to strip to my knickers whilst Lesley dropped a long, flounced Victorian nightdress over my head. In the mirror I thought myself almost totally unrecognizable – pale, ethereal almost, with huge eyes and clouds of hair, fluffed out as it dried and sprayed with a lacquer so strong it gave each hair body like fuse wire.

  Not that there was any time to wonder at my reflection because Lesley, her sheet of typewritten instructions in one purple-tipped hand and the other clamped round my wrist, now had to deliver the finished article to Studio 8.

  Barefoot because of the not-quite-dry varnish on my toenails, I allowed myself to be dragged back along the corridors, skidding and slipping along the polished vinyl floors due to the powder on the base of my feet, and up to some complicated soundproof doors with red and green traffic lights above them, in the negotiation of which we collided with the Director.

  If he had said “What kept you?” I think I would have punched him. Instead he looked me up and down in a critical manner, clapped Lesley on her back, then announced that there was no immediate hurry, as owing to union rules the entire crew had just knocked off for breakfast.

  We collapsed against the wall and watched his unhurried departure in the direction of the canteen. A passing technician enquired if we were auditioning for a Hammer Films version of Peter Pan and Wendy. Lesley told him to crawl back into his cheese.

  Breakfast seemed a very good idea.

  In the canteen nobody batted an eyelid at the flounced nightdress and the ethereal make-up, the staff at Television City being accustomed to people wandering around wearing the most outlandish costumes. Following Lesley’s example, I collected a tray, a plate of egg, bacon and sausages, a small rack of toast, a mug of coffee and a stack of individual packs of butter and marmalade.