Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,53

of scenery and stood looking out of a high window at the grey-green expanse of the Heath. He turned eventually: I couldn’t see his expression against the light.

‘I’ll arrange it,’ he said. ‘I’ll send Ziggy. You just get on with the movie.’

I said with satisfaction, ‘Right,’ and we made our way as colleagues down to the stable yard, signing out as usual with the guard on the outer door and crossing to the car.

‘Did you know,’ I said conversationally, ‘that they used to hang witches?’

O’Hara stopped in mid-stride and after a pause said, ‘Howard didn’t suggest such a thing in the book, did he?’

‘No. I’m surprised, really, that he didn’t. It would have gelled with the dream lovers, don’t you think?’

O’Hara blinked.

‘The last witch was hanged in Merrie England in 1685,’ I said. ‘By then they had strung up over a thousand people accused of witchcraft, mostly women. I looked it up. Witchcraft itself went on for a long time after that. Goya was painting witches flying, around the year eighteen hundred. People still follow the old practices to this day. I’d think it improbable that a witch-hanging took place in Newmarket only twenty-six years ago, but there’s no harm in Howard inserting a scene or two to sow doubt.’

CHAPTER 9

Unexpectedly glad after all to have a driver, I travelled to Huntingdon making notes for the rehearsals ahead and thinking over my second conversation with Howard. He had been in his room when I returned with O’Hara and had agreed to come along to my sitting-room, but with bad grace.

‘Howard,’ I pointed out, ‘your name is immovable on this film. You can write brilliantly. Whether or not you disapprove of its plot, the words in this film are mostly yours, and you’ll be judged by them.’

‘Some are yours,’ he objected.

‘I prefer yours. I only write what you won’t.’

He could glare, but not dispute it.

‘So,’ I said without fuss, ‘please will you write a scene suggesting that the dead wife was hanged for being a witch.’

He was outraged. ‘But she wasn’t a witch.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She was Audrey Visborough’s sister!’ His tone said that that settled matters beyond doubt.

‘Think it over, Howard. Put the thought into someone’s mouth. Into someone’s head. Just a shot of a magazine article might do the trick. Headline – “Is witchcraft dead?” Something like that. But don’t place your scene in the Jockey Club enquiry room, they’ve already struck that set.’

Howard looked as if he might comply: he even looked interested.

‘Her real name was Sonia,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Did the Visboroughs tell you?’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’ His prickles rose protectively. ‘They were all very helpful.’

I forbore to say that the Drumbeat was as unhelpful as one could get, and went on my way.

My assistant director, Ed, who normally had one assistant of his own, now had, as usual for crowd scenes, several extra deputised helpers. The townspeople of Huntingdon, having streamed to the racecourse in highly satisfactory numbers, were being divided, positioned and generally jollied along by Ed who had been given, and had passed on, my emphatic instruction that the people who had come should be happy, and should want to return the next day, and the next. Lollipops were to be dangled. Fun was to be had. Nash – ah, Nash himself – would sign autographs now and then.

The people in charge of Huntingdon racecourse had been welcoming and obliging. Contracts, payment, insurance, safety precautions, police: all had been arranged. Provided we finished and vacated the place by Friday, they would give us, if they could, everything we asked for. Repairs, if any were needed, could then be done before they opened the gates to bonafide racing the following Monday.

Our horses, our jockeys, our crowds, our drama, had realistically to play their parts by Thursday evening. Tight, but possible.

I prayed for it not to rain.

Ed chose people to stand in the parade ring in groups, looking like owners and trainers. Others were directed to crowd round and stare. Genuine professional steeplechase jockeys appeared in the parade ring in racing colours and scattered to each group. They weren’t the absolute top jockeys, but tough, reliably expert and being well paid. Our lads led round the horses, saddled, rugged and carrying number cloths. It all began to look like a race meeting.

The real thing, of course, would be filmed separately on the following Monday, with Ed in charge of wide, establishing shots of full stands, large crowd movement and bookmakers shouting the odds. Cut in with our