Bron-13

Continued from Chapter 12: Bron-12 | ABCtales

Chapter 12

The worn tyres of Geoff’s van struggled for grip on the corrugated surface as they rounded a 90-degree right-hand bend. Muffled protests came from the back of the vehicle where the rest of the crew struggled for a handhold. The sun was just beginning to burn through the mist that clung to the marsh.

“Nice day for filming, anyroad,” said Geoff, to no-one in particular. A couple of sheep munched disconsolately on the reedy grass of the Romney Marsh. “Must make you feel at home, all these sheep, eh Bron?” said Chris, brightly.

“Don’t have sheep on our farm. Cows and pigs.” The 4.30am alarm call hadn’t agreed with her, coming after a ten-hour stint at Metalmasters.

“I thought all you Welsh had your own personal sheep? Keep you warm on those long winter nights,” Aiden, one of the extras, called from the back.

“Fook off,” said Bron. She leaned on the window, desperate for a few more minutes of precious sleep.

The van swung into the car park, on the dot of six. The proprietor of the aircraft museum had agreed to allow them four hours of filming, before the place opened to the public at ten on Saturday morning. He’d even offered to fire up a few of the engines, just to add extra atmosphere.

“What’s THAT?” said Bron, pointing to the large lump of indeterminate metal and four bent pieces of metal, like walrus tusks.

“Engine from a crashed plane. The props – propellers – must have got like that when it hit the ground.”

“There must be loads like that round here,” said Chris. “Battle of Britain. Probably quite a few still buried out there on the marsh.”

“Yeah,” said Mike. The Luftwaffe would have made landfall here; our RAF guys would have been waiting for them.”

“Tally fuckin’ ho!” someone yelled from the back of the van.

Chris had decided that they’d concentrate on scenes where Bron didn’t have too much to say; waving as she walked across the field, climbing in and out of planes, giving the thumbs up as the engine roared. The more dialogue-heavy scenes could wait until she’d mastered the Dixieland drawl. If she mastered it, he thought ruefully. He’d even thought of turning Lt Hinds into an immigrant from Caernarfonshire. But that would be taking too many liberties with the facts, he’d decided.

Meanwhile, her North Walian accent would be drowned out by the noise from the planes anyway.

Elderly piston-engined aircraft roared away. The young Second Lieutenant Hinds, wearing a scarf and a leather flying helmet –actually an old football cut in half and daubed in brown paint -  clambered into the small biplane, gave the thumbs up. The start of her flying career as a cropduster.

Then the same exercise with a Vultee Valiant, the kind of aircraft that Lt Hinds would have done Air Corps her training on. The plane was a non-runner, so a replica Harvard had been started up out of shot; the camera had to keep the Vultee’s props out of shot. This time Bron had to glance behind her, then look left and right, peer down at her instruments and give the thumbs up. “CHUCKS AWAY!”

“CUT! It’s CHOCKS away, Bron!” said Chris.

“Will anyone notice?” said Geoff. “Anyway, do we even know that they said that in the Air Corps? It’s an RAF term, ain’t it?”

“Search me,” said Chris. “I’m only the scriptwriter…”

There was one other scene to film. The museum caff, a wooden hut, would stand in for the messroom. Geoff was Sergeant Mearns, Mike as Aircraftman Woods. They, and the extras were dressed in a variety of overalls that had been dyed in an approximation of US Airforce Blue. Chris still had an uncomfortable feeling that the scene looked more like tea break at a branch of Kwikfit than a forward airbase in the Pacific theatre.

Seargeant Mearns was giving the men – and Lt Hinds - a briefing on their next mission. Before getting underway, he’d order Lt Hinds to make everyone a cup of coffee. There was no documented evidence that such an event had ever taken place, but it would resonate with modern audiences, Chris thought, especially Lt Hinds’ reaction. 

“So Bron, when I say: ‘Why don’t you fix us all a nice cup of coffee, Lieutenant Hinds?’ you go over to side, fill up the coffee pot, walk over to me sitting at the table and …you know what to do, don’t you?”

“Yeah, OK. I have read the script.”

“Obviously, fill the pot from the cold tap, not the hot … “

“Oh yes, obviously … “

The cast milled about. “OK men, listen up!” said Sergeant Mearns. “Briefing time.” Everyone shuffled about and took their places on the seats at the trestle table.

“Way-ull, before we begin, wh-ay don’t you fix us up with a nai-ce cup o’Cawfee, LOOTEenant  Hinds?”

“Sure, Sarge.”

Lt Hinds got up from her seat and walked over to the sink, busying herself with the coffee pot and the taps. Then, she walked slowly and deliberately across the room to the Sergeant. She raised the coffee pot in her right hand and then slowly and deliberately poured the contents over the man’s head.

“YEEEEAAAAAHHHOWWWW! FUCK-FUCK-FUCK! AAAAAARRRGGGGH! Fuckin BITCH! I’LL KILL YER!” Chris lunged at Bron, who deftly stepped backwards.

“And it’s a WRAP!” said Simon, the cameraman. “That was absolutely BRILL! Best scene we’ve done!”

“I told you to use the fuckin’ COLD tap, you COW! My HEAD!”

“Seem to remember another time when the water wasn’t what was expected, a few months ago. Tushy!”

“Tushy?”

“A think she means touché…” said Mike.

“Yeah - whatever. Touchy, tushy…”

“Interesting, isn’t it, how our best acting comes when we’re not acting,” said Chris.

“Perhaps that should worry us,” said Mike.

To be continued in Chapter 14