‘Yeah?’ He grinned, his old grin, and it made me ache, because I couldn’t for the life of me remember the last time I’d caused him to do that. ‘Just one? Or can I count you in, too?’
And that was when our phones pinged withThe Screen’s article. Blake, the movie’s lead publicist, sent it. I was ready to delete it. After everything that’s gone on, I’ve been trying to avoid giving that kind of thing headspace. But Nick opened it, and, as I stood in the drizzle watching him read, I saw the frown that descended on him and decided I’d better take a look.
He’s tried to claim he’s not annoyed that I didn’t comment on the state of things between the two of us (which we can only take to mean: not great), or that the journalist put aswoonnext to Felix’s name but not his. And maybe if it hadn’t been for those photos in Sicily, he really wouldn’t have cared about that bit. That’s not who he is.
The part about us, though …
Yeah, he’s totally pissed about that.
Looking away from his brooding expression, I return my attention to the woody world outside. Again, I’m assailed by familiarity: a sense not of arriving, but returning. It makes even less sense to me now that we’re actuallyonthe estate. Unlike the roads we’ve just left, I know I’ve never been down this driveway before. I can’t have been. Until the National Trust took Doverley over, four years ago, it was closed up for decades; derelict. I’d be tempted to put the recognition I feel down to the photographs of it I’ve pored over all during the war – unlike with Iris, there’s plenty of that to be found on the web – but everything I’ve seen has been of the house and its flat, open surrounds, which we still haven’t reached. All that remains hidden by these trees. And these trees, this earthy, blue-green shadowland, I’m certain I’ve never come across a picture of.
A bird calls, its lone song ringing out above the hum ofthe car’s engine, echoing into the early autumnal dusk. At the sound, I close my eyes, lean my head back, and feel a shiver snake through me.
It’s another half mile before Doverley’s woods give way to open parkland, and the house comes suddenly into view, regal and aloof beneath the heavy violet sky. I lean forward, taking in its high sandstone walls, columns and porticoes, and, as the sinking sun spikes the clouds, watch it all glimmer gold before morphing to matte again. We draw closer, and distantly I register everything else we pass – the swarms of crew out and about; the rows of trailers parked up on the meadows – but don’t pay any of it attention. I’m too busy looking at the set of the base that’s been built on the fields stretching out from Doverley’s western wing.
There are hangars, Nissen Hut billets, and barbed wire fences. Model Lancasters stand in the rain, wheels blocked. Above them looms the control tower from which Iris exchanged her last words with Robbie, whatever they might have been.
What would she think of this set, I wonder, if she were to return and see it?
What would Tim Hobbs,Mabel’s Fury’s navigator, say, if he were to come?
I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. He was twenty-five in 1943, and has just had his one hundredth birthday. He got his message from the queen. I wrote to him too. I wanted him to know what a privilege I count it, to be a part of re-enacting such an incredible chapter of his life. I have no idea if he read my message. He’s apparently getting weaker, no longer always himself. I doubt visiting a film set is even factoring as a possibility in his mind.
And I’m not convinced any of this would feel remotely authentic to him.
It definitely doesn’t feel real to me.
More than anything, it reminds me of one of those theme park rides where trams funnel crowds through every ten minutes, making them jump with the same, repetitive, explosions.
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ says Nick, finally breaking the silence between us.
‘Yes,’ I say, and I’m not sure why I lie.
Maybe because it’s easier than trying to explain the disconnect I feel.
The numbness.
Nick pulls up, shutting off the ignition. Holding the steering wheel, he drops his forehead against it, then turns, giving me a rueful grimace.
‘Sorry, Claude,’ he says. ‘I’ve been an ass. A jealous ass.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, automatically, shifting in my seat, glancing again at the set. ‘I should have handled that reporter better.’
‘They can’t be handled.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ I reply, and this time, don’t stop to question whether or not I’m lying.
I don’t think I am.
I hope I’m not.
Regardless, the journey’s been uncomfortable enough as it is.
We’re set upon as soon as we get out of the car.
