‘What is going on?’ I say through gritted teeth as I draw near to Arthur. He smiles, then grabs something from behind him and sets it down before me. An old-school canvas director’s chair, complete with the lettering on the back, is placed in front of me and he gestures for me to take a seat. Typical man; thinking one gift will solve all his wrongdoings … I sit down anyway, not for him; it’s just that I’ve always wanted to see if they’re comfier than they look. It turns out that they are and I can’t help but smile a little as I lean back into it. Arthur’s famous grin returns.
‘We’re making a film,’ he declares. ‘Did you know that Bill once had a pint with the fella who operated the camera on Oasis’s “Wonderwall” music video?’ He looks over to Bill who holds the weighty camera in his arms, looking positively proud.
‘I did not,’ I confess.
‘And did you know that Barbara once had a conversationwith “Leonardo DiCaprio” on Facebook where he asked her for fashion advice and she sent him an iTunes voucher so he could make his flight to get to the set ofThe Revenant; you know, the one that finally got him his Oscar?’ Barbara blushes and grins as Arthur winks at her. ‘It’s basically thanks to her that he won.’ I grimace thinking how much of her hard-earned cash the definitely-not-real “Leo” managed to scam her out of, but she seems happy enough now, flinging around various items of clothing in her makeshift costume department.
‘And did you know, your very own grandmother,’ the woman in question comes swanning over, makeup brush in hand, ‘was once the best makeup artist in Boston!’ (Impressive if he were talking about Massachusetts, but slightly less so when you realise that she was the makeup lady behind the counter in the local department store for a couple of years.) But who am I to dampen their spirits? She’s a talent. I’ve seen her draw on her eyebrows perfectly every single day for over twenty years, in the dark, in the car, in the rain, you name it.
‘And your grandad,’ Arthur continues, ‘he’s helped build so many sheds for everyone in the village that he is the best set builder I’ve ever seen.’
Arthur doesn’t stop until he mentions every single name in the room and their precarious links to the film industry, making each one of them blush and grin with his praise until the room is practically vibrating with their own personal confidence. I’ve never seen half of these folks look so energetic. Arthur’s charm offensive really is an art that needs to be studied.
‘Andyouare the greatest writer, greatest mind, and greatest woman I have ever met in my life.’ He’s too bloody good. ‘We’re going to do this, me and you, and this lot, even if they are more of a hindrance than a help most of the time.’ I hold his gaze in mine until everyone else in the room vanishes into the background and all that matters is him and me and the magnetic pull that means neither of us can stay away.
‘Arthur, where on earth did you get all of this stuff from? There must be tens of thousands of pounds worth of stuff here,’ I finally say, when I regain my senses.
‘Hundreds of thousands I reckon.’ My eyes instinctively widen. ‘I took a little detour on my way home.’ Every time he says that word, a little pulse bounces through my body. A tiny flicker of hope ignites within me, praying that he’s changed his mind, that he will fight to stay. ‘Dad had all of this lying about getting dusty so I nicked it. He doesn’t need it; he’s got people that make his films for him. I’m sure he won’t even notice it’s gone.’
‘Arthur, Arthur!’ Before I can protest, Bill comes over with a fast limp and an excitable expression. ‘I’ve got an idea for a place we can film.’
‘Well young William, you had better speak to your director.’ Arthur points the gentleman in my direction and he sags a little as though disappointed not to be wowing Mr Cavendish with his ideas. That, and he’s presented rather a few ideas to me before including but not limited to, a dial-a-ride service to and from the pub, and shooting paintball pellets at anyone speeding through the village, all of which I have shot down rather quickly.
‘Right, Beatrice,’ he begins and I hold my breath, ‘you know how it’s set in New York, yeah?’
‘Yes …’
‘Well, you know that old place on the banks of the River Witham at Langrick, just up the road? What was it called? TheWitham and Blues, that’s it, that old restaurant that used to have those kiddies from the high school dancing about, big old diabetes-inducing milkshakes and stuff. Well, they’ve still got that old yellow cab parked outside, you know, like the ones they have in America. I reckon we could ask them to use it and I can drive about like a proper cabbie, like that “You talkin’ to me” fella.’ Arthur and I watch him, stunned, for a moment, until Arthur begins to nod his head with such enthusiasm that I start to believe that he too has lost his mind.
‘Bill, you do know that you live in New York, right?’ I clarify.
‘Born and raised, gal. Born in my mam’s bungalow down Dogdyke Road.’
‘The film is set here, Bill, not the American New York.’
He looks at me, confused.
‘What would you want to make a film about this place for? We’re two roads and a pub, hardly anything exciting.’ All I can do is smile.Thisis exactly why I want to make a film about this place.
And that’s exactly what we do. With the help (hindrance) of the entire village, we spend the next three weeks up and down the county filming the story of Jimmy and Ed, their highs, their lows, their time in New York, and their timeapart until it ends with Jimmy, sat alone in the Big Apple, waiting for his friend to return, the friend who forgot about him long ago. Arthur plays his father, of course.
I won’t admit it to him, but I have seen him in his previous roles. You know, the cheesy cameo in teen movies, or the straight-to-streaming flicks that were never going to show off his acting ability when the script sounds like it’s been produced by some AI programme that’s still in its infancy. All of them are superficial roles, but not this one. Though the extras around him are pubgoers who can’t stop looking into the camera, the sets are out amongst the public with only Tracy as a bouncer to try and stop random civilians walking through the shot, and my camera work is far from anything professional, there’s something captivating about watching him both on and off the screen. There’s real emotion in him. Perhaps it’s his closeness to his character, or his closeness to the whole production, but he gives his father a run for his money.
‘There’s nothing here for me, Jim.’Arthur, as his father, sits on the dry-stone wall, kicking his heels as his co-star tosses stones into the dyke behind them.‘This place, if I stay, I’ll be a farmer, or an alcoholic. If I stay here, I’ll end up like my dad. If I don’t get out now, I never will.’
‘What about me, Ed?’Jimmy’s character, an aspiring actor we picked up in an audition from Boston College, delivers his heart-wrenching line.‘It’s always just been us, together, a team. I ain’t like you, Eddie. I can’t just leave this place and not look back. Where would I go?’
‘Come with me.’
Producer Natalie was right in a way. This is a lovestory of sorts. A tragic, heart-breaking, but beautiful story of the love of two friends who lost each other, but have been irreversibly changed because they knew each other. Tommy is my Jimmy.
Arthur’s performance is so real, so raw, I find myself sweeping away a tear or two as I watch him.
He is a Cavendish through and through. There’s no doubt about that.
Chapter 32
Arthur
