-•✦--✦--✦•-
Larry and I were kicked out from the set due to reaching our maximum hours allowed on set. I begged to get another tutoring session done and the producer reluctantly called the tutor to get some hours done for me. I didn't blame Larry for not wanting to do some extra hours when he'd already done all the ones he needed anyway. He'd filmed all his scenes and officially released from the project.
When it looked like we were about to finish up, Estella had put on her fancy gothic dress to film her last scene. Before that she'd sang the lines over and over not because the film needed it but because it would help us connect more to the scene. She'd waited the entire day to shoot our scene but, in the end, action scenes just took too long and I was already at my working limit. At least her time in the hair and makeup trailer had been put to good use by filming the few second take of her framed in the manor window as she made cruel laughs at Pip's expense. Our scene would be shot tomorrow and when that short scene was shot, she'd be wrapped too.
As for me, I only had a few days of shooting left. One of them was the long-awaited opening scene where a chase scene would be shot in a reed-filled marsh. Julian informed us last week that the location scout visited the spot and declared that the reeds were just the right height for me. So far the weather didn't quite match up just yet. Julian was probably happy with it because it meant there would be no unnecessary delays and more actors could be wrapped and gone, which would save up on his budget.
I'd gone for only a couple days but the dynamics on set had changed completely. Miss Havisham's actress Charlotte had filmed her last scene with the adult cast and already gone off for her next project. Lesley Sharp who'd played Sister had left too. Most of the supporting adult actors were in and out most days but the actors who I shared most screentime with were finishing the project and dropping out from travelling with the rest of the cast and crew.
It felt oddly lonely and daunting because every new day of shoot would start with a cast member or two leaving.
Young actors were no longer needed, it seemed. Young Biddy's actress had gone ages ago, leaving after our single scene in Thornham. The harbour there had a narrow trail skirting the sea, and we'd filmed with our backs to a broken boat, its ribs jutting like bones. She taught me my letters, patient and kind, while I did my best to look as dim as the bumpkin I was. That had been right at the start of principal photography.
Larry had arrived much later, parachuted into the middle of it all, and he was finished in just two days. Estella had only one scene left now, and I doubted she'd linger much beyond that. Children came and went. The gears of production ground on without sentiment.
There was still one scene for me to film — Magwitch being dragged off by soldiers and forced onto a boat. Clive Russell would likely wrap that day as well. It was a notable location, though, because Ioan was filming all his water scenes there. The crew were looking forward to it. There'd be a diver in heavy gear beneath the surface, expensive waterproof camera held in their hands filming Ioan and Bernard as they struggled in the water. Ioan would have his hero's moment, hauling Magwitch up just in time, saving him from being crushed beneath a paddle steamer. It was the sort of scene that people remembered.
I assumed Estella would stay to see it. She struck me as someone who liked to witness everything, even what she wasn't required to be present for. But once that scene was done, she'd be gone. Properly gone.
Between lessons, as I ticked off my tutoring hours quota by learning things I already knew, the day began to feel oddly hollow. I hadn't expected to feel lonely. That caught me out. Missing Larry made sense — he was easy, familiar, a quick friendship that slotted so neatly into place that it felt like we'd always been friends.
Missing Dorothea did not.
We'd never truly agreed on anything. From the beginning, we'd circled each other warily, trading small victories, testing boundaries. That afternoon when we'd danced a duel, we'd fought will against will and found that we were both stubborn and unyielding. I'd found something I didn't know I'd been looking for in her — a rival. I'd always assumed that role would belong to Henry, or some other boy. Someone I'd compete against openly, see repeatedly at auditions, lose out roles to, win roles against, record our tallies. Someone to measure myself against as the years went on.
Dorothea and I would never compete like that. Our paths wouldn't cross in waiting rooms of casting offices. There would be no rematches.
Perhaps I'd see her name on a poster one day, or her face on the silver screen, and feel that familiar flame urging me to be better. But it wouldn't be the same. Rivalry needed proximity. It needed friction. Friction started fires and our fire should be as hot as a forge.
The first day that I met Dorothea Offermann, on that table-read, I couldn't wait for her to be wrapped and gone. Now, somehow I was missing her before she'd even left. Confusing, that.
"Would you like to go?" Tara asked.
"No, I need to make sure I do all my hours before Friday," I insisted.
"I'll sign the full two hours — you never get anything wrong anyway," Tara said flatly. "Also, you look so miserable that I feel like I'm holding you hostage —"
I was already stuffing my books into my rucksack the moment she mentioned signing me off for the full session. Before she could finish her sentence, I was halfway out of the trailer.
"— Hey! Wilf… Wow," Tara called after me.
My grandparents were already seated with Maria, Larry, and Larry's mum, halfway through dinner without me. I dragged a spare camping chair over from a nearby crew table and wedged myself in.
"Where are your manners, boy?" Estella said, pulling a face.
"I'm having a meal," I replied through a mouthful, though I doubted anyone caught a word.
"What happened to your tutoring session?" Maria asked.
"Already done," I mumbled, shovelling in another spoonful.
"You're going to choke on that, Wilf," Larry warned.
"I'll make you choke," I shot back with a growl, which only earned laughter from the table and a glare from Estella.
"What's got you in such a rush?" Nain asked once I'd finally swallowed.
"Sally's here," I said simply.
"Who's Sally?" Larry asked.
"Sally Grace," Nain said. "Wilf's dialogue coach."
"Dialect," I corrected.
"It's the same thing, cariad. Anyway, she's come all this way because Wilf called her out. You do know she teaches at a college, don't you? It's not very polite to drag her out into the middle of nowhere and interrupt her work," Nain scolded.
"She used to work at Rose Bruford — now she's freelance," I replied, with mild irritation.
Nain shook her head, utterly certain of her information. "She still does part-time there. I spoke to her most of the day, I did."
I rolled my eyes theatrically. Nain might've chatted with Sally when she'd visited us in Oval, but I was the one who'd spent hours actually working with her. Sally went where the work was — films, sets, wherever the pay was decent. She'd flown out to Italy before Adrian even tracked her down for me. A trip to Sherwood Forest was hardly a hardship — it was paid work with a side of fresh air. If anything, she'd be glad of another job so soon after Tea with Mussolini. I was offering her fair wages for services rendered, I could only be thanked for supporting the local economy. I nodded to myself, satisfied with myself.
Nain mistook the nod for remorse. "Good. At least you understand."
I didn't argue. I just kept eating, tuning out as the conversation drifted to people more eager for the spotlight.
"So where are you two off to next?" Maria asked Larry.
He launched straight into it — another role with Julian, a different project entirely. I stayed quiet, this was old news for me. Parents and guardians had their own peculiar competition going, circling one another with polite smiles and sharp boasts while trying to look as humble as possible. Larry's mum was the keenest of them all, barely pausing for breath.
"It's good that Larry's already got a job lined up… You know, Estella's been in fourteen productions," Maria said, syrupy with pride. "Eleven on screen, three in theatre. Regional theatre — but everyone starts somewhere and it's only been films ever since."
My Nain wasn't above roughhousing either.
"Wilf began in the West End," Nain countered gently. "Straight from a school production of Oliver to the West End stage. I do wish I'd seen you as Oliver, bach."
Our parents and guardians meant well — I knew that — but being measured and compared like prized cattle still stung all the same. They may be well-meaning but it was quite demeaning.
I rolled my eyes and caught Estella doing the same. Our looks met, an unspoken complaint passing between us. Larry clocked it too, glancing between us before grimacing in agreement.
For the first time in my life, I was able to converse in the telepathic communication method that all of womankind seemed to possess. Every day, I was evolving as a person and today I'd unlocked a power so mysterious and mystical.
When I'd eaten my fill, I leant back contentedly in the lawn chair. The fabric creaked under my weight. One hand idly worried at the sagging netting of the cupholder, stretching it and letting it snap back again. For a moment, I let myself believe tomorrow could wait.
The universe, evidently offended by my comfort, chose that moment to intervene.
"Where are you two off to next?" Nain asked, her voice casual but her eyes fixed on Maria.
I stilled. The question landed with a dull thud in my chest. Where would Estella go next? It felt inevitable — the next step she would take would be a major Hollywood production that would propel her into stardom. I leaned forward without meaning to, suddenly desperate to hear the answer. She'd never indulged her future plans nor did she acknowledge questions relating to it.
Estella, on the other hand, froze. The colour drained from her face as did her carefree smile. She flicked an urgent look at her mother, sharp and worried, the sort of look that carried whole paragraphs without a single word. Whatever passed between them was entirely beyond me. Even with my newfound psychic powers, I was still years away from cracking the secret code of women.
Maria smiled, soft and practised, and reached for Estella. Her hands settled on her daughter's shoulders, warm and steady, then slid down to lace their fingers together.
"We're moving abroad," Maria declared.
"What?" a boy blurted, far too loudly. To my horror, it was my mouth that made the sound. I cleared my throat, suddenly red in the face. "Sorry — where to?"
"Frankfurt, Germany," Maria said easily.
"Whatever for?" Nain pressed.
The base camp around us seemed to dim around the edges. Plastic plates, disposable cutlery, the low murmur of distant conversation — all of it faded into a thick mist. Estella wasn't meant to leave. She was meant to stay on the British Isles where we would lock horns in fierce competition. Estella was supposed to be my rival — my Salieri. This was simply not acceptable.
"Bernie — my husband, Berndt. He's got a new job," Maria continued. "You've heard about the Euro, I assume."
"Euro the currency?" Larry's mum offered the obvious.
"That's the one. There's going to be a new central bank in Frankfurt for all the European countries adopting it. Bernie's worked in international banking for years. He's landed himself a very comfortable position." She paused, then added more gently, "We were meant to move in December, but he stayed on to let Estella wrap things up here. He's been homesick a long time. And Thea… Estella — will get to see the other half of her family."
With every sentence, my skin prickled, gooseflesh marching up my arms. I barely registered anyone else at the table. My eyes were fixed on Estella.
She'd gone utterly still. Her face had smoothed into something porcelain, expressionless and brittle. She looked like a doll left on a shelf — perfect, lifeless, untouched. Butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth.
"Congratulations," Larry's mum said brightly. "That's wonderful."
No one echoed her. The silence stretched and sagged. Grandad glanced at me once, then again, sharp and knowing. Nain didn't look away from Maria.
"What happens to Estella's career?" she asked.
Maria's grip tightened, just slightly. She looked at her daughter with an expression that made my chest ache — love, pride and something like apology all tangled together.
"I'm sure she'll find her feet in Germany. There are theatres, studios. If she wants to keep acting, there'll be plenty of opportunities."
"Does she even speak German?" I asked, too quickly, too sharply.
Maria didn't bristle. "She'll learn. So will I. Children always do. Bernie will help us."
"But she'd have to start all over again, wouldn't she?" Larry said.
The chair scraped back violently.
"Excuse me," Estella said, rising so fast her napkin slid from her lap. "I seem to have lost my appetite."
She wouldn't look at any of us. She folded the napkin with meticulous care, aligning the corners just so — the same irritating habit I'd teased her about more than once. Elbows tucked firmly in. Always proper. Always controlled.
"I'm sorry, Thea," Maria said, her voice tightening. "But we've been planning this for ages. You'll love Germany. It's practically England."
Estella closed her eyes. Her shoulders lifted with a shallow breath, then another. Whatever fight she was having with herself, she was losing badly. When she opened her eyes again, they were glassy, rimmed with red. Tears gathered, clinging stubbornly before spilling over. Her mouth trembled, her lips quivering in betrayal.
And then she broke.
"Mum," she sobbed, the word sounding raw and unfamiliar coming from her. "I've told you — I don't want to go to Frankfurt! It's freezing and miserable there. I don't want to learn German and I don't want to lose my friends!" Her voice cracked, splintering under the weight of her pain. "I love Chelsea. Why can't we just stay there?"
Maria looked stunned, as were we all. Estella dragged in a breath, hitched and uneven.
"I don't want to move to Germany," she cried. "I want to make more films, travel the world, it's so… it's not fair!"
The last word came out thin and broken from the shout. She sniffled once, twice, then bolted away.
"I'm so sorry —" Maria said to the table, "— Wait up!" Maria called, already on her feet, chasing after her daughter.
I sank back into my chair, feeling suddenly battered. My chest felt hollow and tight all at once in a way that had nothing to do with the meal I'd had. I'd never seen Estella like that — raw, unguarded and human. She'd never cried in front of anyone. She'd never called her mother Mum. And Maria had never called her Thea.
Something irreversible had slipped out into the open, and none of us quite knew how to gather it back up again.
"Who's Thea?" Larry asked.
"It's short for Dorothea," Grandad explained.
"That doesn't answer my question…" Larry said awkwardly.
"It's Estella's real name. She likes to stay in character while on set," Nain said.
Larry and I both looked at her incredulously. But I doubted that we were thinking the same thoughts. Flashes of memories played in my mind that had nothing to do with the revelations.
First day at the table-read, Estella spoke to me like a happy and sweet girl for a few minutes until I brushed her off. There were more famous people in the room than her and children were pretty low on my list of people I wanted to listen to. When the first line was read by Julian and Tony, the sweet girl had disappeared. She was replaced by a prim and put-together girl that I came to know — the one who used Victorian dining etiquette even on the plastic table and camping chairs. The girl who used cloth napkins to have her meal, sorted her plastic cutlery as if she were at a high function. Dorothea, who'd rejected being called Estella.
Dorothea, who I'd been needling all the time for wanting to be called by her character name.
Revelations were made.
I'd been a right arse from the start, weren't I?
She'd been in character all this time.
I burst out in laughter and the table, especially my Nain, gave me judging glares.
"Why is it that method actors always want to be the arseholes?" I mumbled a quote from the aether.
"Read the room, cariad."
"Oh my god and I was the bigger arsehole somehow!" I said with a slap on my head in realisation.
"Where are you going?"
All this time, I'd been angry at Estella Havisham for being herself. I'd met Dorothea Offermann for only a few minutes before she'd gone full method. When I first heard of such acting methods, I'd rolled my eyes at the absurdity. But it turns out, she may have been leaning in to listen better.
Every sign was there too and I'd ignored them until it was spelled out for me.
"Nain!" I said excitedly. "Estella's been method acting! I mean, Dorothea has been acting as Estella. That's mad, isn't it?"
Nain gave me a bemused look. Larry was having his own revelation. Grandad chuckled. Larry's mum looked confused.
"I wondered how long it'd take for you to figure it out," Nain said with a shake.
"You knew! You're so… you're so cruel!" I accused.
"I wish I'd brought the camcorder to capture that," Grandad joked.
"Don't you want to go comfort the girl?" Nain suggested.
"What? No!" I brushed her off. "She needs her space," I declared.
"That seems awfully mature for you," Nain said, looking confused.
"And anyway, I've got to go meet Sally. It's already getting late."
"There it is," Nain said.
"Huh?" I let out.
"Don't bother," Nain said with a shake of her head. "We'll call it a night here then?"
"I think that was enough entertainment for the day," Larry's mum said.
The short drive back to the lodge was spent unpacking the night's revelations. How wild was it to see a true method actor in the flesh? I mean, most actors are method actors in truth but most people associated Estella's method as the poster child and dark warning of how far actors went for a role. She wasn't even doing a full method either because she was happy to throw away some disbelief to improve herself and learn more about film production.
What really stumped me though was the fact that my revelations never knew anything about Dorothea Offermann. I'd first taken it for a child actress who'd never really made it. Then my assessment was discarded when her talents were too undeniably for even my delusions to deny anymore. I suppose she could've become disillusioned and left the industry. Many child actors had that happen to them.
Hollywood was not for the faint-hearted.
After our dance duel though, I recognised her for who she was — a rival to me and perhaps a girl who might even have the same abilities as I did. Someone who was much too talented and much too advanced from the rest of her age group. Many of my doubts were answered by the fact that she'd transformed herself into Estella Havisham — a girl with more emotional maturity, cold-heartedness and speech that was much too posh.
Dorothea had played a rose with many thorns but underneath it all, she was just an eleven year old girl who was doing her best at making it.
But now it opened up the possibility that Dorothea Offermann had always existed even in the future that I knew from my revelation. Only she'd gone off to Germany and probably became the best actress that cold sad place ever had in it's history. My revelation might feel unending, but it never held such a wide net to know everything that went on around the world.
A smile came unbidden to my face. Revelations allowed me to know the future, taught me unbelievable amount of information and fast-tracked the learning of some skills. But more than everything, it allowed me to change and influence the future as I saw fit.
If only I willed it.
—✦—
"Accents are the way we pronounce words — the mouth movements we use. Dialects are bigger and include accents, but also cultural and geographical influences. That stretches to how we see ourselves — even class. Are you a miner in the North East, or a miller in Yorkshire? Those things affect how we refer to objects, the slang we use, whether our speech is casual or professional, and much, much more," Sally finished.
"Uh-huh," I said, nodding along with enthusiasm I didn't entirely feel.
"You know, if something's bothering you, we can come back to it later."
"Yes." I nodded in understanding.
"Hey. Hey." Sally clapped sharply right in front of my face.
I swear I didn't flinch — it was just the rush of air that made me blink.
"What?" I asked, finally paying attention.
"You've dragged me over from London. Every day costs you a hundred quid — and that's before my hourly rates come into play. I'm doing you a favour by driving out here, so you might want to pay attention."
"But we've already covered this," I said with annoyance. "It doesn't seem like the wisest use of our hour."
"Of course, la. But we still need to preface the session so I know you actually understand what I'm teaching," Sally replied, a touch defensive.
"Reet, lass. Teach us things," I said, slipping into what I thought was a respectable Liverpudlian accent.
She stopped dead. "You're dreadful at playing a Scouser. Don't push it now," Sally said flatly before continuing as if I'd said nothing. "County Durham is north of North Yorkshire, south of Newcastle and Northumberland. The sea's to the east, and Scotland's barely an hour away. Tell me what that all entails."
She was usually far more fun than this. I must have pushed her too far. With a quiet sigh, I accepted that whatever plans I'd been plotting could wait.
"Dialect's influenced by geography," I said. "So the vernacular and pronunciation across those areas would be broadly similar to Durham."
"Indeed. But history matters too. Up until the eighties, Durham and most of the North East revolved around the collieries. You get pockets of population forming around them — developing accents separate from the surrounding areas. Durham's one of those places. Why would that affect the accent?" She pressed for an answer.
"Well… the mines act like hubs, don't they? They're fixed locations, so men from all over come in to work. I suppose the accent gets mixed in the pits."
Sally scribbled something in her notebook. I watched the pen move, baffled. She already knew this — it was her entire profession. It made no sense for her to take notes.
"Exactly," she said. "Those men bring their speech with them. Over time, a new dialect forms — borrowing slang, sounds, turns of phrase. Similar to their originators, but distinct. As I keep telling you, language evolves. Britain might look fractured, but if you close in, you'll see the similarities. Zoom in — to a city, a town, a neighbourhood — and the differences become more stark."
I glanced around the officer's lounge I was staying in. The way she'd slipped into lecturer mode made it oddly difficult to take her seriously.
"Miss," I said. "Why are you speaking like that?"
"Like what?"
"The accent."
"Oh. RP's easier," Sally said. "Not everyone wanted a Scouser on television back in my day. Now — working in the pits had its own linguistic quirks. Do you remember what I said about northern accents?"
"No," I admitted, shaking my head. My attention had narrowed entirely onto Sally Grace herself.
"It's a little theory linguists like. Liverpool had ships — cargo, sailors, rot. Everything stank. So the accent goes nasal. Like you've got a blocked nose. Sound familiar?" Sally said in her natural Scouse accent.
"Right. I remember now."
"Lancashire had mills," she went on. "Huge belts and machinery grinding grain. So Yorkshire speech is highly articulated — loud, aggressive, you can almost read it off their mouths."
"And Birmingham was polluted, so they can hardly breathe when they talk," I said, hoping to hurry her along. "And RP's all prim and proper because private school children had sticks up their arses."
She paused and looked at me, unimpressed.
It dawned on me, not for the first time, that she was laying things out as if we were a room full of strangers rather than two people who'd already covered this ground. Sally Grace I knew would simply laugh and carry on. But she was taking today's lesson as a problem to be solved. After a day spent repeating the same movements until they lost all meaning, the last thing I wanted was to sit through exposition for the audience's benefit.
"Brilliant," Sally said, with a brightness that was fully glamoured.
I scanned the room, half-expecting a hidden camera, some punchline I was missing. There was nothing. Just us, as it were.
"That analogy helps when explaining to normal people, I suppose," she went on, "but it's hardly scientific and linguist have different theories. But what we know is that there are dozens of factors that shape a dialect. Working down the pits — coal dust, lack of fresh air. Maybe elevation plays a part. The darkness of the tunnels, even. Or maybe none of that mattered and it was simply a convergence of accents of the county. Either way, you get what's called Pitmatic. You'll hear it called pit patter, pit-yack, pit-yacker. It's close to Geordie, but softer — and if you're familiar with northern accents, you'll find it easier to understand —"
"Sorry," I cut in. "Why are you talking like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're on the telly. You're so… proper. It's just not right."
The words left my mouth before I'd thought them through. Sally dropped her gaze to the notebook and began to write, slow and deliberate. That somehow felt worse than being told off. Normally she'd have fired back, made a joke of it, brought me back into line with a grin. Instead, she looked tired and spent.
"Who are you?" I asked, standing up, nudging my chair so it scraped softly between us. I was still hoping for laughter. The part of the movie where a suspicion of someone being replaced was proven wrong with an inside joke.
The part where we laughed it off.
She finished writing her sentence before looking up, she let her glasses fall but the cords caught it and kept it around her neck.
"Sorry, Wilf," she said quietly. "I'm trying to get back into teaching. Rose Bruford's changed since I left. New certificates, new curriculum. I've got to relearn how to do all this. For my new class, I need structure. They're making a new unit so that I can get back on again. Proper notes. I thought I'd use your session as a model — turn it into something the students can actually follow instead of my usual scatterbrain lessons. We can't simply teach by experience anymore."
The irritation drained out of me all at once, leaving something heavy behind. I realised how carelessly I'd put her into a box — Sally, I knew was the one who joked and improvised and bent the rules for her pupils. Sally I'd worked with was a freelance worker, professional sets weren't as professional as classrooms.
I noticed the lines around her face, tiredness that felt ancient. The worry for the future.
Her easygoing nature had made me overlook her age. She was as old as my grandparents, and yet she was still working, still adapting, still forcing herself to keep up as the ground shifted beneath her. She'd stepped away to work on films, and when she came back, the place had changed without waiting for her. Same college. Different expectations. Students who didn't care. Qualifications that no longer meant what they used to. And still she'd shown up.
Still, she was trying to keep up.
I'd made her drive all the way out to Sherwood Forest on her own. I'd treated the session like something owed to me, rather than something she was building from scratch. Change came easily to me — or so I'd thought — but for her it meant starting again, piece by piece.
When she'd sat down to teach, I'd barely met her halfway. I'd been too busy being clever, too busy planning to turn the world at my own tune to notice the effort it took for her to be there at all.
The lesson, I realised, had never really been about accents. Today, I was learning that I'd been an arse to everyone around me. The lesson in how blind I was to all but my own woes.
It would cost me nothing to be decent. Nothing to make her readjustment to teaching easier.
I straightened in my chair. No more jokes. No interruptions. No drifting off.
I nodded once, properly this time, and let the lesson start anew.