Bonfire Memories Read online

  Bonfire Memories

  Copyright © Sally Quilford 2012 – All rights reserved

  Originally published by Bridges and Knight Easy Reads

  Cover image: Dreamstime.com

  Bonfire Memories

  Chapter One

  Midchester 1946

  What does Humphrey Bogart say in that film? Of all the bars in all the world… This isn’t anything like Rick’s Bar. It’s The Quiet Woman pub in a miserable backwater of England. It’s full of small-minded people, living small-minded lives. Their imaginations don’t stretch beyond the boundaries of the village, but that suits me. It’s easier to fool people like them. I smile at them, buy their drinks and they greet me like an old friend. Who would have thought loyalty came so cheap?

  Then she walked in. I felt my heart somersault, just as it did the first time I saw her, more than ten years ago. She’s older than the last time we met, but she’s still as exquisite as ever. Motherhood has added something more to her features. As if it completes her. I hate her for that. For getting more joy from the child than from me. I realise with a start that I still love her too. She smiles at me, pleasure lighting up her beautiful blue eyes, and I shake my head quickly, hoping no-one else had noticed her.

  It’s a lame wish, because strangers stand out here, just as I did when I first arrived. A beautiful stranger is even more noticeable. I look to the corner of the bar, where Peg Bradbourne usually sits. She’s not there. Thank God! They’re all nosey around here, but old Peg has a special type of nosiness. It’s more insightful. She may never have left the village, but her imagination does stretch beyond the boundaries. She would remember the beautiful visitor long after everyone else had forgotten. She would notice that the woman was looking for me. Everyone else is … what do they call it around here? Too much in their cups? Drunk, in other words. Apart from a few who only drink lemonade, but they’re a special kind of stupid, so they don’t count.

  I walk across the pub and whisper to the lovely newcomer in our own tongue, ‘Not here.’ I see the hurt in her eyes and it crucifies me. What I really want is hold her and kiss her and tell her how glad I am to see her. But that won’t do. Not in Midchester, of all places. My reputation has been too hard won and I won’t give it up now.

  The woman I adore is a danger to me. I don’t know what I can to do to put things right.

  ***

  Midchester 1966

  Guy Sullivan stood at the window of The Grange, looking down over Midchester village. He rolled his shoulders a little, feeling the walls closing in on him. It was the sort of place one either found on a chocolate box, or covered in snow, adorning a Christmas card. The early morning frost glistening on the roof of the Norman church added something to that effect. He could see the appeal, but his reasons for being there prevented him from really enjoying the scenery.

  From the moment he arrived in Midchester, he had experienced a sense of foreboding. It was a pretty little place, yet he believed there was darkness and secrets long buried amongst the back to back terraces and dim alleyways at the far end of the village. Midchester brought out his innate claustrophobia. It was something he had not suffered since he was a little boy and crammed into a dormitory with dozens of other people. The memory caused him to flex his long arms. At least he did have more room here.

  He hoped he would not have to stay too long. He was used to wide-open spaces, and The Grange, though one of the largest houses in the area, still seemed small compared to his sprawling mansion in Los Angeles and his sheep farm in Australia. Not that he could call either of those places home.

  Guy watched as the gate at the bottom of the long driveway opened, and a red Hilman Minx came trundling up the lane. He had been given a Hilman Minx as a gift once, but had to give it away to charity when he found it impossible to drive due to his long legs.

  The girl who got out was perfect for the vehicle. The epitome of the sixties, she was petite with slender legs encased in tight black slacks. She wore a black roll neck sweater under a smock type red jacket. He couldn’t see her face, as the wind blew a curtain of light brown hair across it just as she turned towards him.

  A few moments later his personal assistant entered the drawing room and closed the door behind her. “The young lady from the local newspaper is here, Guy.”

  “Thanks, Enid. Send her in.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Guy? You could tell them that you’re here on a private visit and don’t wish to give interviews.”

  “You know how it goes, Enid. If you don’t talk to them, they keep hounding you. I’ll give the girl her story and then she’ll be happy.”

  “She might also bring the rest of the press to your door.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I haven’t had time to brief her yet. Do you want me to tell her that some subjects are off topic?” Enid did not have to tell Guy what particular subject she referred to. The papers had been full of it for the past year. Enid was a middle aged woman who had never had children of her own. It was one of the reasons she protected Guy so valiantly.

  Guy shook his head. “No, that never works either. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  Enid nodded curtly and went back out. A few moments later, she opened the door again and announced, “Miss Cara Baker”.

  Guy put on his most winning smile and stepped forward. “Miss Baker, thank you for coming today.” He stopped short, stunned by a delicately pretty face and limpid blue eyes. The girl looked so fragile. Guy idly wondered whether she would snap if a gust of wind somehow got into the room.

  “Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” Cara Baker stammered. She seemed to have something stuck in her throat as she coughed between words. Guy was used to having that effect. It disappointed him to learn that she was no different to any other girl. “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, sounding a little more composed. “I’ve never interviewed a famous actor anymore. I’ve interviewed the mayor, but he’s only famous in Midchester. And now I’m waffling. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not really a famous actor,” said Guy, smiling. He gestured for her to sit down on one of the plush sofas. “Bring some tea, please, Enid.” Enid left the room again, casting a warning glance at Guy. He knew it meant to be careful. No one could know why they were really in Midchester.

  “Oh, but you are. You’re tipped for an Oscar for your latest film.”

  “Yes, as best director,” said Guy, sitting on the sofa opposite her and stretching out his long legs, which were encased in blue jeans. “My acting roles in films were usually to be the guy that the heroine dumps so she can marry Steve McQueen or Paul Newman.”

  “Does that bother you?” asked Cara. He noticed that she had not yet taken out a notebook and pencil. “Being the guy who loses out to a better looking man? I mean, it’s not that you’re not good looking. You are, but…”

  “I’m what’s known as Hollywood ugly,” said Guy with a knowing smile.

  “I wouldn’t say you were ugly at all.”

  “Thank you. You may want to write this down,” he said, gesturing to her empty hands.

  “What? Oh yes, sorry.” Cara fumbled in her bag for a notebook and pen. “Sorry, the thing is… not only have I never interviewed anyone famous, you’re only my second interview for the local paper. Mr. Black, the editor … he’s also the mayor by the way … Eric Black if you should ever meet him … he said I have to stop acting like I’m just having a chat with people, and start realising I’m here to get a story. Only I can’t fight the feeling that I’m just being nosy.”

  “Actually a chat works for me. What would you like to chat about? Be as nosy as you like.”

  “Well, you of course. Does it bother you that you have moved to directing because you didn’t
get the big roles?”

  “Not at all. I find directing much more interesting. I get to boss people around for a start, and I really enjoy that.”

  Cara laughed. “I think I’d enjoy that too, though my landlady, Nancy, says I already do that with everyone.” She looked down at her notepad, and pressed her lips together. “I’m waffling again. Perhaps you could start by telling me a bit about yourself. Your life story and how you became a famous actor.”

  Guy paused for a moment. Should he tell her the truth or the Hollywood sanctioned story? For the sake of his new film, he decided to stick with the Hollywood version. “I was born in Australia, thirty-six years ago. My family were descended from convicts.” Not for the first time, Guy marvelled at how, in the current climate, that was a more palatable story than the truth. “We had our own sheep ranch. In fact, I still own that ranch.” It was only half a lie. He had bought it in nineteen sixty. “But I wanted to travel the world, so I went to the States and worked my way across America.” Part of what he said was true, but not all of it. “Somehow I ended up as an extra in Hollywood. On Spartacus, no less. Blink and you’ll miss me.” It was an old joke, but he was gratified to see that Cara smiled. Every actor had claimed to be an extra on Spartacus and there was no way of disproving it, given just how many were used for the filming. “Then the roles got bigger. I got the odd line here and there. I played a few tough guys. Their role was to die at the hands of the hero.”

  “So you’ve never had acting lessons?”

  “I did later, when I realised acting was what I wanted to do. Believe me, my lack of acting knowledge shows in my early films. Hitchcock said I was the stiffest stiff he’d ever seen.” It was another old joke, and in no way true, but people seemed to like it. Guy sighed. He had told so many lies, even he was not sure of the truth anymore. “But things got better, and I got a minor role in a Paul Newman film. This led to bigger roles.”

  “They’re saying that the war film you’ve just directed will solidify your place as a Hollywood bigwig.”

  “Wow, you did your research really well,” said Guy.

  “I erm …” Cara blushed. “I’ve watched a lot of your films.” She looked down at her notepad. Guy was amused to see it was completely empty, but the story he had told could be found anywhere, and maybe she already knew it if she had done her research. “I’m a fan,” she said in a quieter voice. “Sorry, that was really lame of me. I’m not supposed to say things like that. I just think you’re a really good actor, and I’m sure you’re a brilliant director. If you don’t get an Oscar, it will be a travesty.” She blushed.

  “Thank you, Cara.” Guy wanted to be pleased that she liked him. She was lovely. But she might also be yet another woman who wanted his scalp for her collection.

  “Could you tell me a little about the film? It hasn’t come to Britain yet, but we’re all dying to see it.”

  “It’s about love and war, prejudice and redemption.”

  “The hero is a German?”

  At that point Enid entered the room with the tea tray. She looked from Guy to Cara and then back again, her eyes full of concern. Guy pretended not to notice. “Thank you, Enid,” he said firmly. She poured the tea. Guy could see her hands shaking, and wondered if Cara had noticed.

  “Do you have a problem with a German hero, Cara?” he asked, when Enid had left, slamming the door after her.

  “What? Oh no. It’s caused quite a stir around here though. During the war … I was only little at the time … everyone thought there was a saboteur stealing things and damaging vehicles. Except it wasn’t. It was… Oh well, never mind. I just wondered at your choice of subject matter, giving how strongly people still feel about the war.”

  “There was good and bad on both sides. Admittedly Hitler’s government did more bad, but not everyone was involved in that. I wanted to tell the story of a man who wanted nothing to do with any of that, yet had no choice but to …”

  “Follow orders?” said Cara, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Keep under the radar, and not let his family get hurt,” Guy snapped. He took a deep breath. “I guess the film explains it better than I do.”

  “Sorry, yes. I shouldn’t really comment until I’ve seen it, should I?” She smiled apologetically. “I really do want to see it. But for now I have a list of questions that people have asked me to ask you,” she said, seemingly composing herself. She pulled a folded up sheet of paper from her handbag. “Do you mind? Some are a bit personal, so you don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to.” Before Guy could answer, she started on the first question. “Have you ever fallen in love with a leading lady?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve been infatuated with them, but actresses are…” What could he tell her? That actresses – and actors for that matter – tended to be a little self-obsessed. They left little room for anyone else to love them. “Actresses are devoted to their careers, so they seldom feel like settling down. I’m not a Neanderthal, but I would like a wife and children one day.” It was a trite answer, but one female fans seemed to like.

  “Okay, another question. What sort of women do you like?”

  At the moment, thought Guy, I’m very partial to girls with light brown hair and big blue eyes. “I like all women,” he said, in another well-rehearsed speech. “Blondes, brunettes, redheads. I like women of all shapes and sizes. What matters is what’s in a woman’s soul. Kindness and intelligence are more important.”

  “You don’t really believe that,” said Cara, raising an eyebrow. He could hardly believe she was challenging him! “It’s what all actors and pop-singers say, yet you never ever see them with plump girls or plain girls or just ordinary every day girls.”

  “Isn’t it what your female readers would like to believe?” asked Guy, laughing. There was no fooling this one.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Then that’s what I think. And actually…” he became more thoughtful. “It isn’t important what someone looks like. They can be very beautiful on the outside, but be a horrible person inside.” It was one of Guy’s rare moments of telling the truth.

  “Yes, you’re right. Only a couple more questions. I’m sorry about this, but I’ve been asked to ask you about your relationship with Selina Cartier. Is it true that your affair with her broke up her marriage?”

  “No, it’s not true. Selina needed a friend and I was there, but I did not help or encourage her to cheat on her husband.”

  “Sorry but I had to ask. One final question, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Guy.”

  “Guy. What are you doing in Midchester?”

  “I’m here on a private visit.”

  “Is … is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, it’s just…”

  “What?” Guy wondered if word had somehow managed to get out. It was impossible. Only he and Enid knew the real reason he was there. Given how much Cara already knew, it was possible that she had unearthed his true story.

  “I know I’ve intruded on you too much today, especially as you now say you are here privately, it’s just that I’m in charge of the Bonfire night celebrations, which we’re holding at the village hall, and I wondered if you’d be willing to come along and judge the Guy Fawkes contest for the children. I’m sure Mr. Black would do it, if we asked, but well, we really have never had anyone as famous as you here. But I don’t want to intrude if you really are here privately.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “When is this?”

  Cara looked at him as if he were mentally deficient. “Bonfire night. The fifth of November. Guy Fawkes, the Houses of Parliament and all that.”

  “Of course, forgive me. You’d think with a name like Guy, I’d know that.”

  “No, sorry, I shouldn’t assume you would know. I don’t suppose you do it in Australia.”

  “I can’t say we ever did. Setting off fireworks and bonfires in November is not a sensible thing to do in Australia in th
e height of summer.”

  “Is it summer in Australia now?” Cara looked at him wide-eyed as she sipped her tea.

  “Yes, it is. It could be anything up to forty degrees in the shade.”

  “Oh, wow. So would you be interested in coming along and doing the judging?”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You should give me your phone number, and I’ll call you.”

  “It’s in the book. The Quiet Woman pub. I work there. I live there too actually.”

  “So you’re a journalist, the organiser of the Bonfire Night festivities and…”

  “A barmaid. I’m also doing night classes in journalism.” Cara said. “I like to keep busy.”

  “I can see that. Okay, Cara … may I call you, Cara?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you when I’ve had time to think about it.”

  Cara left a few minutes later. She had barely written anything on her pad, not even a few lines of shorthand. He only hoped she would represent him properly. He watched as she manoeuvred the car down the driveway. A beautiful and thoroughly modern woman. But how modern was she? In America, young people of her age were starting to ask for peace, yet Guy wondered if Cara held all the prejudices left over from the war. Would he find that in the rest of the village?

  It was not that he did not understand the prejudice, only that it made life difficult for those who had not supported the regime. Would anyone in Britain understand how hard it was for a family to survive in a dangerous era of distrust and betrayal? This was what he had tried to portray in his first directorial debut. But Guy was smart enough to know what whilst Hollywood may make films about equality and the greyer areas of life, in the towns and cities the old feuds died hard. Especially those about a war that had resulted in millions of deaths and was still in living memory.

  He heard the door to the drawing room open and close.

  “What was all that about?” said Enid.

  “The film, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. She’s just a kid, Enid.”