The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [74]
‘…the ground’s too wet,’ Michael is saying as we close on the Range Rover. ‘We’d achieve better results later in the summer when there are clear parch marks.’
‘I need aerials sooner than that,’ says Ibby, her tone firm and confident. Like the first time I saw her, she’s wearing red–a long-sleeved T-shirt, this time, under a khaki waistcoat with lots of bulging pockets, a walking store-cupboard for batteries, videotapes and fold-up headphones. Sunglasses nestle in her short dark curls, and reading specs dangle on a chain round her neck. ‘Shit, Harry doesn’t look happy.’
The cameraman, on the other side of the field, is giving the sky over Cherhill a worried once-over. Trails of high cirrus are forming against the blue. There’s something flat and unappealing about the light.
‘We need to crack on with the PTC,’ says Ibby. ‘Michael, if it pours, can we film in the museum?’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’ Michael checks his watch. ‘Sorry I can’t hang around–meetings.’
Ibby folds her map and puts it into another of her bottomless pockets. And rostrum the Keiller stills?’ she calls, to Michael’s retreating back.
‘She speaks an entire new language,’ whispers Martin, in my ear. ‘I’m terrified of her already.’
I heard that,’ says Ibby. ‘Good. It might persuade you to do what I tell you. Now get your arse over there and put your mind to this piece to camera. India, the mini-DVC’s on the back seat. Can you film at the same time as Harry from the other side?’
‘Oh, God, it’s going to be modern,’ says Martin. ‘Funny angles and jump cuts.’
‘It’s for Channel 4, Martin,’ says Ibby. ‘They like to push the boundaries of technique. And for a man who claims not to know the language, you seem remarkably versant already with the basic grammar.’ One side of her mouth goes up in a kind of smile. Arse. Gear. Joined by the preposition “in”. Harry! Can you come and set up?’
The cameraman folds the tripod, picks up the camera and meanders towards us, the soundman trotting at his heels like an eager puppy, attached by a lead to the camera. I sneak a glance at Ibby’s clipboard on the bonnet of the Range Rover. The top sheet is a mind-bogglingly organized list of shots.
‘I’m not used to this,’ I say, reaching inside for the smaller camera. ‘Never worked on a production with budget for a full crew.’
Ibby gives me a withering look, opening the tailgate and loading big flat camera batteries into her pockets. ‘I do things professionally. But that doesn’t mean wasting money.’
She is scary. I unpack the camera in a hurry.
‘Where do you want him?’ asks Harry.
‘That diamond-shaped stone. Two sizes, please, wide and MCU.’
Martin raises anguished eyebrows.
‘Medium closeup!’ yells Ibby. ‘But I haven’t the time to nursemaid you. From now on, it’s never apologize, never explain.’
Harry wanders around, stopping now and then, bending his knees to dip and squint, framing possible shots. So far he’s not smiled once. Ibby’s eyes follow him hungrily. He’s probably only a couple of years older than me, which makes him at least ten years her junior, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.
We’re onto the fourth or fifth take before Martin overcomes his nerves and hits a rhythm. ‘…The stone weighs approximately thirteen tons. Hard to know what happened, but the likeliest explanation…’
‘Cut.’ The soundman pulls off his headphones. ‘Aircraft.’
‘You sure? I can’t hear anything,’ says Harry.
‘Long way off, but could be coming in this direction.’
‘Shit. That was going really well.’ Ibby straightens up from the portable monitor on the grass. ‘You’re starting to look like you’re enjoying yourself, Martin.’
‘Actually, I am.
In the distance there’s the high mosquito whine of a microlight. ‘Just what we need,’ says Ibby. Her voice sounds relaxed, but she’s massaging the back of her neck as she glances at her watch. ‘I hate the little bastards. They should issue an anti-aircraft gun as