I go around the caravan and join in the debate between the drain men, the security guard and John J over where to park the van. As I escort them inside the gate, once again I’m nearly flattened by Natasha Blythe, her auburn wig loose and wild as she runs off in the direction of her trailer in tears. I take it that scene 273, ‘Victoria discovers that the Watcher has slashed her clothing’, did not go well.
‘Hey,’ I say, as she goes past, ‘are you OK?’
She slows down for a split second, her eyes round and wide. ‘Yes. I mean, I… will be.’
I feel a little sorry for her – it can’t be easy starring in a film, especially one that Luke is directing. He seems to demand perfection in every aspect of his work. Which begs the question – what, if anything, he might see in me.
‘You’re doing great,’ I say, as much to reassure myself as her. ‘Just be confident.’
She shakes her head and goes off. I’m tempted to go after her, but just then I hear Luke’s voice coming from the marquee: ‘Look, Richard, I’ll talk to her. It’s going to be fine. You just need to be patient.’
‘You know how fucking patient I’ve been!’ is the reply.
Before Luke can respond, Dominic Kennedy weighs in. ‘I think it’s me who needs to talk to her. Will you let me have a go, Luke?’
I don’t hear the response, but a second later, Dominic strides out of the tent in his cloak and knee-high boots, looking like a swaggering Puss in Boots who’s just swallowed a canary.
The two drain men exchange a glance like they’ve landed on Mars or something. I’ve already explained to them about the filming, but I know from experience that knowing and seeing are two different things. I lead them into the house, warning them not to trip over the cables, the cameras, the lights, and all the other hazards about, and show them down to the cellar.
Standing behind them on the stairs, I can see that the water level has risen even further. The washer/dryer, boxes of old baby stuff, chair cushions for the loungers, electric tools, pesticides, old paint cans – everything looks to be a dead loss. And only a few feet above the rising waterline is the electric box. I try to stop my racing thoughts and frantic calculations, try to stay calm now that help has arrived. But the whole situation feels overwhelming. Like a sandcastle on a beach, I’d begun building up a few fragile dreams about the future. Quitting the law firm, opening the B&B – and slowly achieving financial independence. But now, a tide of water has risen – literally – leaving nothing but furrows in the sand.
The men put on waders and slosh through the water. I listen to snippets of their conversation from the top of the stairs. ‘Nothing obvious’, ‘broken well cap?’ ‘water coming in from the lake?’ ‘just waiting to happen’. To me, it doesn’t sound good. I go upstairs and find the folder with the insurance documents and look through them. As I suspected, there’s an exclusion for flooding and water damage caused by a natural source. I shove the documents back in the folder as the tears come again. This time, there’s no one to wipe them away.
When I finally pull myself together and go back down the stairs, the men have brought in a portable pump. It rumbles and glugs at least some of the water out the washing machine drain. I steel my courage and ask the boss what they’ve discovered.
‘Nothing yet,’ he tells me, smacking his chewing gum. ‘When we’ve cleared the water, we’re going to have to dig up the floor.’
‘Dig up the floor?’ I say in horror.
‘Well, you need it sorted, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘I do.’
*
The drain men work for another hour, then go off to get some more equipment. Everyone on the film set seems on edge. Whether it’s due to the flooding, the schedule, or the problems with Natasha Blythe, I don’t know. Because I can only focus on my own problems, which seem to be multiplying. When the drain men return, they’re carrying two large jackhammers. Seeing them, I feel sick with worry – it seems to me that the floor must have been keeping the water out, so how digging it up is supposed to improve things, I don’t know. But all I can do is trust the professionals.
When the jackhammering begins, it can be heard not only all through the house, but in most areas of the garden as well. When I catch a glimpse of Luke from afar, he looks apoplectic. I can hardly blame him. The noise is doing my head in and I’m not the one responsible for keeping sixty people and a multimillion-pound budget on track. Eventually, they give up, abandoning yet another day’s schedule. I’m particularly worried when I see that Michelle, Theo’s former boss and head of locations, has arrived and is talking intently to Luke and Richard out on the lawn. Could they possibly be thinking of abandoning Tanglewild and moving somewhere else? I feel like running out to them; telling them that it will all be fine – I’ll call off the jackhammers, let the house flood – anything to keep them here, filming their movie. But even if I would really do such a thing, I’m too late. Luke drives off with Michelle in her car, and the assistants close the set down for the day. Phillipa, who’s been working with Theo on the changes to the script in the marquee (I’ve ‘accidentally’ locked the door to Jack’s room), also leaves earlier than usual.
I’m so caught up in the comings and goings that I don’t notice right away that the jackhammers have stopped. My ears are still ringing with the relentless noise, and it takes me a few seconds to adapt once again to the sound of silence. I go to the kitchen. The waterlogged washer/dryer has been brought up the stairs, along with a toolbox and a few soggy cushions. All are clearly bound for the skip. I sigh. At least the low hum of the pump is reassuring, almost soothing compared to the awful din that’s been going on most of the afternoon.
‘Hello?’ I say from the top of the stairs. I’m almost afraid to go down and see what carnage has been committed in my cellar.
One of the drain men comes up carrying a bucket of broken tiles, the reddish clay at the bottom damp and dripping like congealed blood. ‘Hi, Mrs Greene,’ he says, almost gleefully. ‘I’m afraid there’s good news and bad news.’
I like to plan things and solve problems which is why I’m normally a ‘bad news first’ type person. But in this case, I just can’t bear it. ‘The good news,’ I prompt.
‘The good news is that the temporary pump is taking care of most of the problem – for now. We found a large hole in the bottom of your cellar – maybe an old well, but we’re not sure yet. Under the tiles was a stone floor, and one of the stones was covering the opening.’
‘A well? I didn’t know.’
‘It’s goes down about thirty feet. Normally, there’s only a few feet of water in the bottom. But obviously, the level has been rising.’
‘Obviously.’ I can sense we’re quickly coming on to the bad news. ‘So what caused it to rise.’
‘Search me,’ he shrugs. He goes out the open door to the terrace and chucks the bucketful of broken tiles into a wheelbarrow. ‘It could just be one of those things. The wellhead down the bottom may have just given way.’
One of those things. The words I’d been dreading. One of those normal wear-and-tear kind of things – like needing a new roof or a new boiler – that just happen. Just happen to set you back thousands of quid you don’t have, that is.
‘So what now?’ I dig my nails into my palm nervously.
‘We need to get another pump going. Drain the hole completely and see what’s down there. See if there’s something we can fix. Because if not…’ he shrugs again.
‘If not, what?’ Irritation injects itself into the mix of panic and worry churning around in my stomach.
‘Then we’ll have to install an industrial-sized permanent pump.’ His smile is anything but reassuring. ‘Which would be expensive.’
As opposed to all the rest of it. ‘And how long is this going to take?’ I press. ‘When are you going to know if this “expensive” solution is going to be required?’
‘We’ll be back tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But it may take a few days before we can get down there.’
A few days. The project… Luke…
‘OK, but what about now?’
‘As long as the electrics are on, the pump should keep running.’
The man goes back down for another load of debris. A while later he and the other man wheel away the barrow, leaving behind the waterlogged cellar, the uncapped well, and the temporary pump. As he’s leaving, the boss comes up the stairs with a clipboard and some paperwork for me to sign. The estimate is three times what I was expecting, even in the worst case scenario. My B&B idea – always a dream, maybe – floats away down the river like the body of an ancient warrior, and over a waterfall to its death.