But I don’t turn to the mirror.
I make room on Iris’s bed as Emma moves, sitting beside me, wrapping me in her arms.
‘Promise me we’ll do this more,’ she says. ‘Promise me we’ll do it lots.’
‘I promise,’ I say, hugging her back.
You were an exceedingly lonely and vulnerable little girl, Ellen told me earlier.
You had no real-life friends.
‘You’re gonna be ok, Claude,’ says Emma. ‘It’s all gonna be ok.’
She’s already left by the time I wake the next morning, off to catch her plane home. It’s Thursday, 22 November, and by the end of this weekend we’ll also have said goodbye to the last extras remaining with us. This time next week, the rest of us will be packing to leave too. We have just seven days of filming left, including another night shoot this evening, and only one day off remaining – tomorrow – which I’m determined to spend with Tim.
I call Roger from my trailer at bang on 9 a.m., telling him I need to talk to Tim about the nightMabel’s Furywent down. I’ve decided to be candid about that now. I can’t afford not to be. We’re almost out of time, and increasingly it’s looking like Imogen’s ending is the one we’re going to be going with. As things stand, I’ll be shooting Iris’s final words to Robbie next Thursday morning, mistakenly giving him the coordinates that leadMabel’s Furyinto the sights of a Nazi warship. Over in LA, special effects will create the moment that that ship’s guns destroyMabel’s Fury’s engines. And, on Thursday afternoon, the boys will film the panic of their final moments as they realise that they’re going down with their parachutes damaged. They’ll jettison all their equipment, shedding weight in a desperate bid to reach England, until, realising how hopeless it is, Nick,Robbie, willfix the plane’s steering to keep it flying straight, and he and the others will jump, parachute-less, through the escape hatch, freeingMabel’s Furyof their own weight too, so that Tim – unconscious,bleeding out since Berlin– might have a chance of gliding to land.
The next morning, I’ll wade into the North sea.
Even now, a location team’s out, confirming arrangements for the beach we’re using.
‘I need Tim’s help,’ I tell Roger. ‘I spoke to a friend of his, Eleanor Norland, and she’s certain he can give it to me.’
‘Can you hold for a minute?’ Roger says. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
And I do hold.
I hold for several minutes, pacing my trailer, trying to guess what Roger and Tim are saying, growing more agitated the longer the classical music playing into my earpiece goes on.
Then, ‘Claudia, I’m sorry,’ comes Roger’s voice: embarrassed, awkward. ‘Tim’s not feeling up to visitors tomorrow.’
No,I think.
‘Please,’ I say out loud. ‘I won’t keep him long … ’
‘I’m afraid it’s not going to work. Maybe try again over the weekend?’
‘Tomorrow’s my last free day,’ I say heavily.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats.
So am I.
But I’m not giving up either.
As soon as I hang up on Roger, I reach for my script, tear free the final pages, grab a pen, and, on the back of this scene that Ellen said Tim should never have permitted, I write to him, begging him to let me visit. I don’t take my time over what I say – I don’t have time – but write from my heart, without inhibition, hoping to touch his.
You believe that the past is always happening,I scribble.So do I. After the weeks I’ve spent here, recreating this beautiful, terrible chapter of time, I believe it utterly.
I carry on, talking of my father, just as I did to Ellen, relaying his certainty that none of us ever truly go, but remain always present, fated to live these lives we’ve been given over and again. I tell him of all I’ve seen and heard of Iris’s world, and finish by entreating him to help me understand her end.Turn off the lanterns illuminating my stage one final time, I beg you.Let me see what you saw on this November night in 1943 so that I can try to make it right.
Then, folding my hastily scrawled note up, I seal it shut withgarment tape, and head out of my trailer into the morning’s glare. The skies have cleared, the temperature’s once again plummeted, and the glinting fields around me are buzzing, hectic with everyone getting ready for this next scene we’re about to shoot, back in the control tower. The actor playing Sergeant Browning is coming out of make-up, ready to go, but it’s not him I look at.
I look at Nick, who’s sitting on the step of his own trailer, cradling a cup of steaming coffee, wearing jeans and a sweater – he’s not working until this afternoon – staring right back at me.
I hold tight to my letter, and consider asking him to deliver it for me.
