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Daughters of Fire

Год написания книги
2018
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I

Viv spotted the manuscript of her play on Cathy’s desk at once, with the copy of her book resting on top of it, as she threw herself into one of the armchairs in front of the bookcase. Cathy and Pete were in the kitchen getting supper and Tasha was slumped in front of the TV in the living room. Pat had followed her into the study with a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses. The other armchair was occupied with a certain air of defiance by Pablo, so after a moment’s hesitation Pat pulled up a smaller chair next to the desk.

‘This is fantastic!’ She thumped the jacket of the book. ‘Brilliant. I enjoyed it enormously. What a woman!’

Viv gave a wry grin. ‘Indeed.’ She waited to see what Pat was going to say next.

‘And your stab at the play is not at all bad.’ Pat put on a pair of green-rimmed spectacles and laid her hand on the manuscript. ‘Much better than I expected, in fact.’ She reached for the bottle and poured, pushing one of the glasses across the desk towards Viv. ‘I like the approach you’ve taken. The drama. The narrative interludes. That works well.’

‘Not according to Maddie.’ Viv took a gulp from her glass.

‘And I’ll tell you why.’ Pat glanced up. ‘You don’t mind? It’s what I’m here for.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Viv shrugged. She minded like hell, but she had no choice.

‘You’ve become self-conscious. In the book you were relaxed and confident. On your own ground. You knew what you were doing. Your voice, and Cartimandua’s voice are authentic. In the play you’ve lost that authenticity. It comes through from time to time almost by accident and those bits come alive. Like the first scene. It’s brilliant. Then you rein yourself in again and I think that’s the phrase you used yourself, and the style becomes –’ Pat hesitated. ‘Pedagogic. Even pedantic.’ She groped in her pocket for her cigarettes. ‘Do you think Cathy would notice if I smoke?’

‘Yes.’ Viv grinned. ‘Yes, she would.’

‘You’re right. It’s a bummer trying to give up.’ Pushing the packet back into her jacket Pat reached for her glass again instead. ‘Does what I’m saying make sense?’ She raised an eyebrow.

Viv shrugged again. ‘I suppose it does, yes.’

Cartimandua’s voice – not authentic! She smiled grimly to herself.

‘Do you mind if we do some deconstructing?’ Pat went on. ‘Shorter scenes. Punchier. More real. Your good ones are so good they make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. That’s why the others are such an anti-climax.’ She shook her head. ‘And the narrator’s voice needs to be less tentative. This is you, right? Whether we use you in person, or an actor. You are the world authority on this woman. We need to be convinced of it.’

Viv let out a gasp of laughter. ‘The world authority?’

‘Too right!’ Pat took off her glasses and looked at her earnestly. ‘I’ve got such a good feeling about this. It will make a fabulous piece of radio. I’ve got a friend down in Cornwall who could compose us some music. Lots of ambient sound. Celtic stuff, you know. Pentatonic scale – all the black notes! Full of mystery and atmosphere. Maybe record it on site with the wind in the mike. I can hear it in my head already. Viv, this is going to be wonderful.’ She took a sip of wine, then reached for her spectacles again. Opening the manuscript she glanced at it, running her finger down the text as though she were going to read a bit from it. Then she changed her mind. ‘What we need is a new outline.’ She studied Viv’s face and hesitated. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’

Who is Maeve?’

‘Maeve?’ Viv echoed the name in shock. ‘Why?’

Maeve. Medb.

Medb of the White Hands.

She was not in the play. Not in the book. She had no part to play in recorded history.

Pat was frowning. ‘The name keeps coming to me. I dreamed about her last night, as though she was a character in your book. But she isn’t. Is she? I checked the index and I couldn’t find her.’

Viv shook her head. ‘No, she’s not in the book.’ Her mouth had gone dry.

‘But the name means something to you?’ Pat cocked an eyebrow. She picked up her glass and standing up, wandered over to the other chair near Viv’s where, careful not to disturb the cat, she perched on the arm. ‘Who is she?’

Viv shook her head. ‘I believe she was someone Cartimandua came across in her early life. A period not covered by the book because we know nothing about it officially.’ She paused. Then she found herself unable to resist asking, ‘What did she look like. In your dream?’

Pat was silent for a moment, remembering. ‘She was young. Very beautiful. Tall. Slim. With amazingly striking eyes. Intense light steely-blue. A hard face.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think she was very nice.’

The silence in the study drew out into a long pause as Pat swung one leg slowly back and forth, the shoe dangling from her foot. She was studying Viv’s face.

‘No.’ Viv sounded worried. ‘She wasn’t very nice. But I don’t know how we know that. We know nothing about Cartimandua’s life apart from what the Roman historians tell us. They were not interested in anything much but politics.’

‘A point you make very clearly in the book.’

Viv nodded.

‘And yet you’ve put in a lot more than Roman politics.’

‘Extrapolated from other sources,’ Viv said, almost to herself. ‘From archaeology for instance.’

‘And Maeve’s name is not mentioned anywhere.’

‘No.’

‘But she features in the story, doesn’t she? Why haven’t you mentioned her?’

It was Viv’s turn to reach for the bottle. Lunging forward out of her chair she grabbed it and slopped a little wine into her glass with a shaking hand, spilling some onto the carpet. ‘Nothing more than guesswork. Forget her. She’s not part of this story.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pat was frowning. ‘Why would I dream about her?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

For a moment the two women looked at each other, then at last Pat shrugged. She changed the subject. ‘How do you want to work with this? Shall we get together each morning? I could come over to your place and we can concentrate on getting it done before you have to go away. I gather you have a publicity tour coming up?’

Viv nodded. ‘A week or so talking about my book.’

‘Right. Well, we’ll try and get as much done as possible before that.’ Pat paused. Then went on, ‘Another idea has just occurred to me. Rather than do all this in a studio, I think it would be really effective to record some if not all of it on location. With sound effects. Like the music. It would be tremendously atmospheric. It works on radio. Something TV has taught us. Any editing we need I’ll do myself initially on my laptop.’

‘That sounds a wonderful idea.’ Viv nodded vehemently, then she glanced round as the door opened and Pete put his head in. ‘Supper’s ready, girls.’

As they stood up and made their way after him towards the kitchen Pablo sat up and stretched, then he jumped down from the chair to follow them. In the doorway he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder into the empty room. For a moment he hesitated, eyes wide, his tail fluffing with fear, then he followed them.

There were five of them around the table this time including Tasha, and tonight’s menu was once-more child friendly. Fishcakes made from a mixture of organic wild salmon and sustainably-sourced white fish, the name of which Cathy could not recall.

‘You can help Viv and me choose a name for ourselves, Tash,’ Pat said with a grin as she sat down. She was becoming quite fond of this precocious mixed-up child. ‘Maddie has suggested we form a production company. And this could be the start of a very exciting new angle to Viv’s career. You realise, Viv,’ she added enthusiastically, ‘if this is the success I think it is going to be, we needn’t stop with Cartimandua. We could go on to make other historical drama documentaries for radio. The success of this will carry us forward and your name will be linked with the product rather than with the period. That would get your professor off your back.’

‘But I’m a Celticist.’

‘You’re a talented woman with several strings to your bow,’ Pat contradicted. She sat back in the chair, her arms outstretched on either side of her plate, eyeing her fishcake. She was dying for a cigarette. Opposite her Pablo the cat was sitting on the draining board watching the proceedings with inscrutable green eyes. ‘So, what are we going to call ourselves?’

Half an hour later they were still arguing. Wearily Cathy stood up and went to rummage in the fridge for another bottle of wine. ‘Do you think you’ll find it easy to agree the script if you find it this difficult to decide on a name?’ She picked up the corkscrew with a rueful smile.

‘Sisters. That’s good. Something sisters. Or sisters of something,’ Pat went on, ignoring her. She too was growing impatient. They were going round in circles.

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