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Saturday, May 1st, 1999 — Proteus Army Training Camp, Newark, UK
Sun barely crested over the thick forest that surrounded a rare clearing in the middle of it. Wooden houses littered the clearing with a recreation centre in the centre. A woman in a pink tracksuit jogged on a dirt track while taking in the nature all around. It was a rare sunny English day. Her jogging took her past a gazebo and her eyes suddenly shot to a movement she'd detected. Only, the gazebo was completely empty. Dark-skinned girl seemed to shrug and picked up speed for the upcoming lap around the camp.
Once she'd passed, a small stream of mist and fog streamed out from behind the wide pillar of the gazebo, drifting up and away as if a tiny fire was burning. A head popped out from behind it to eye the young woman's shrinking figure in the distance. Birds made calls overhead to signal the start of a new day. Another smoke cloud puffed out right where the dark figure could be barely seen under the shadows of the roof. Young woman's path led her to a corner, and a figure popped out fully from behind the pillar to reveal an older woman. Taking a long drag from her cigarette, the woman relaxed but kept her walk around the pillar so she'd always be invisible to the young runner.
"A new day beckons." Plump woman sighed out as a new drag was empty of any of that goodness.
Angle seemed just right, standing up, she put out her cigarette and walked off. Her steps were sure and her hands were busy, a mouthspray came out and she squeezed it twice. Mint exploded in the air. A wrapper opened and she started to chew a gum, both items seemingly disappeared into a tiny handbag.
It was time for her morning walk.
Once the sun was fully over the treeline and the clearing was fully in the sun, two women walked together into one of the lodges. One spoke in quick excited tones while the older one spoke in a slow sing-song tune.
"I heard the Army's coming in soon for their training. Tanks everywhere, guns being fired! How you say it, soldiers tramping about. I wonder if there are some handsome ones." The young woman laughed, light and unbothered.
"We'll be well gone by then, mark my words," the older woman replied.
The lodge they stepped into was well kept, in the tidy, practical way of places used to housing officers. A heavy table sat squarely in the centre, scarred with use and names carved in the edges edges. The open kitchen was clean and efficient rather than cosy — built for function, not comfort.
"Go on, get yourself a shower. I'll see to breakfast."
"Merci," the young woman said, dipping into a playful curtsy.
Gladys Price shook her head, fond but weary, at the girl's uncontained cheer and endless energy. What she wouldn't give to feel that light again — that free. Perhaps, it was the English land she was in or the lodge she was occupying but even a happy girl seemed to wear on her mood.
Of all places, they were living it up in an English Army training base. Life had a wicked sense of humour. Poor Clive had been in a permanent sulk since they'd arrived. Even the military, it seemed, was short of funds now, renting out surplus bases to film production companies. Soon they'd be selling government buildings to foreign investors. What had happened to the Englishmen's pride?
Her eyes searched for the item that she'd gotten used to seeing in recent times. A call sheet that was full of all sorts of information, top of it had 'Day 6 of 22' in bold letters. It even had details such as the sunrise, weather forecast, sunset and the golden hour, some sort of mythical time where the sun was low enough to paint everything in the golden light.
It was a tool that made her days of managing a particularly difficult child easier. Knowing which scenes needed to be shot and where, emergency contact or phone numbers of all people who had any sort of say in things. They gave these to every cast member at the end of a night and it had made her realise that, she needed to do something about the boy. Director's name was sprawled on top and his phone number was neatly printed, she whipped out her phone to place a call.
Conversation was quick and to the point and she wrote a new item to the callsheet. A new appointment for the child sleeping like the dead in the other room.
Gladys set out eggs, bacon, and bread, then went down the short corridor to rouse the Price men. Clive was already awake, toothbrush in hand. Age did that to you — or perhaps it was habit, drilled in over years of early starts and rigid schedules. But Gladys would be the first to admit that her sleeps were short and hard to come these days. Short sleep was getting shorter by the months passing by and any noise seemed to rouse her easily. Perhaps that had more to do with the other Price down the hall.
The last door led to the smallest room, the one Wilfred had chosen himself. She knew before opening it that he was still asleep. If he'd been awake, he'd be singing loudly enough to raise the dead.
Wilfred lay sprawled around a pillow, hugging it like a lifeline, drool escaping the corner of his mouth and there was a wet patch marking it. Poor boy had worked all day yesterday and even spent extra time on set until he'd been kicked out by his chaperone.
"Come on, love. Time to get up."
Nothing.
Gladys shook him gently.
"Wilf, wake up, bach. Big day ahead."
"Five more minutes," he grumbled, nose scrunching.
"Oh no. Not this again," Gladys warned. "If you can talk, you can warm up."
"Ughhh," Wilf groaned, but he hauled himself upright all the same.
His dark hair stood in every direction, sleep having fought a war on that battlefield. It was unclear who won, but the battlefield was thoroughly destroyed. When his eyes finally opened, bright green emeralds met hers — sharp even through the fog of sleep.
"Top of the morning to you, then," Gladys said with a lazy smile. "Breakfast in ten."
She returned to the kitchen just as the shower kicked on in the next room. Aurélie would have made a far easier child to look after. Girls just had a way of taking responsibility that the Price boys tended to shirk.
Eggs went on — sunny-side up. Bacon crisped. Toast was burnt just right for everyone except Clive, who'd always insisted on fried bread for his plate.
Then came the familiar morning sound, the one that was the rooster's call for the Prices in London.
"Ah, ah, ah, ah —"
Wilf's vocal warm-ups cut clean through the paper-thin walls. Gladys turned her nose at it, these walls didn't seem the best practise for an army base to have.
Her grandson was a perfect singer, the notes were clean and articulate that Gladys couldn't help but harmonise with quiet hums of her own. Boy had the voice of an angel and often sang songs from when she herself had only been a girl. Every children seemed to admonish the prior generation and their interests but Wilf seemingly had an old soul for music. He'd always complain about music not having the same soul that it used to. Or was that Clive? She couldn't remember. Though with the family travelling and living on sets across Europe, Wilf didn't sing as much anymore. Practise was all the time he could afford.
"Boreu, cariad," Clive said.
Wilf had kept to a strict morning routine ever since they'd arrived in London. Clive, on the other hand, seemed to have misplaced some of his own, time and routine remained the same. But the man expressed retirement with a greying beard that clung stubbornly to his face. It fit her husband well even though she'd need time getting used to a bearded Clive after a lifetime spent with clean-shaven face.
"Morning yourself, love," Gladys replied.
Clive drifted closer, drawn by the smell of hot fat and salt, and smiled. Gladys admitted — grudgingly — that the beard suited him rather well. It gave him age and mystery that just didn't exist. At least to her, who knew all about the man.
"You've always known the way to a man's heart," Clive said, pressing a bristly kiss to her cheek.
"Every woman does, love," Gladys chortled.
She took out a plate and loaded it with all of Clive's favourites — double sunny-side-up eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, and a slab of fried bread.
"Aye. That they do. Mm," he murmured in satisfaction.
For all his gruffness, Clive was easier to please than a dog. He didn't even grumble about a full English breakfast on an English Army camp. Such was the power of a proper meal.
"Cariad, will you help pack Wilf's things? He'll be heading to the airport as soon as tutoring's done. Or I suppose once the dancing's done."
"Right," Clive said between bites.
"Don't forget his passport. Erin and Ollie should be here in two hours, they're driving out from London. Keep my phone on you and fetch them."
"'Course. Mm," Clive replied.
"Ohh ohh ohh ohh," Wilf sang somewhere down the corridor.
The shower sounds finally cut off.
Within minutes they were all seated around the large table, plates full and mouths busy. Wilf looked proper serious — as opposed to merely looking serious. Gladys waited until he'd finished chewing.
"Wilf, we'll be seeing Julian and David later. You've been sitting on your hands long enough."
"Why?" the boy complained, on instinct.
"Because you're a silly boy with no manners," she said flatly.
Wilf scoffed. "I'm the most gentlemanly boy there's ever been."
"Oh bach, when did you get so big-headed?" Gladys sighed.
Wilf stiffened, worried. "It was a joke. I don't actually think that. When have I been big-headed?"
"Good. Best not let your head balloon up, or someone will feel obliged to pop it."
Wilf stared darkly into his milk. Words seemed to cut deeper into the boy today.
"Don't I know it." Wilf said meaningfully, "But why Julian and David? They'll be busy all day. It's hard to keep this ship running or so I hear."
Gladys shook her head lightly, always with the big words with this boy. Two could play at that game, she supposed.
"Listen carefully, Wilf. Professionalism means telling your superiors when plans change. You'll let them know you're flying to New York and might be delayed for filming on Monday."
"I won't be! I've got it all planned out. Eight hours flight there, they're four hours behind. Seven hours back to London because of the Atlantic winds. Shame there's no direct flight to East Midlands, but I'll be in Dublin and fly directly back." Wilf complained.
"That's assuming everything goes perfectly. You could be jet-lagged, useless to anyone. Courtesy is warning Julian so he isn't caught off guard and can plan ahead."
"We'll be in and out — back before Sunday's even over."
"What's that saying you're always quoting?" Gladys elbowed her husband, who was still eating.
"Hm," Clive swallowed. "No plan survives first contact with the enemy."
"That's the one," Gladys said, pointing at Wilf. "Any obstacle matters. Haven't you heard your director? People will lose jobs when schedules slip."
"Yeah, but he also said I saved him three days of shooting at Thoresby Hall."
"That may be so, but you don't want to cost him even one. People remember their first and last experience with you. Give him the courtesy of informing him. It's not just your audition at stake, it's everyone's job at stake here."
Wilf stared down at his plate, pushed food around, then nodded.
"Good. Have you packed?"
"I'll just take my rucksack. It's only a day," Wilf shrugged.
"Clive," Gladys pointed with her fork towards the man. Who understood what she wanted of him.
"No plan survives first contact with the enemy," Clive echoed the phrase.
"Yes… I understand, Nain," Wilf sighed.
"Excellent. Now — tell me about this dance duel."
"Ughh," Wilf groaned.
Gladys noticed Clive had finished eating and was rubbing his stomach contentedly.
"Medicine time, cariad. Make sure I see them go in."
"Ughh," Clive groaned but stood up to fetch his medication.
The girl who'd been silent the whole time finally giggled. "You're going to have a problem tonight, Wilfe."
"Is she any good?" Wilf asked, suddenly tense.
"I'll only say this," Aurélie smiled, "You cannot take her lightly."
Wilf leaned back on his chair completely, looking even more tired than a Welshman on English army camp.
"Ughh."
The Price men, as ever, groaned more than they spoke.
—✦—
Julian, the director of the production, was lodged in a building almost identical to the one the Price family were staying in. Unlike theirs, however, his was packed to the rafters with film stock and daily rushes. Gladys eyed the haphazard clutter with clear disapproval and would very much have liked to give the man a lecture on fire safety and flammable materials — if not for the inconvenient fact that her grandson was employed by him. Strange times, when a child could be working and earning a tidy sum and hierarchy around the place was all sorts of twisted.
"Ah, there you are. Hope you've all slept well," Julian said cheerfully.
"I'm not sure about us," Gladys replied, taking in the room, "but you certainly look as though you have."
Julian laughed and his palm made a so-so gesture, "I was expecting this production to be absolute chaos. But so far… it's been manageable."
Gladys shot Wilf a brief, commanding look. Julian noticed the boy promptly duck behind her.
"Oh — oh. Is there a problem?" Julian asked, eyes widening. "Please don't tell me there's a problem."
"Go on, Wilfred," Gladys said, nudging him forward.
Wilf glanced back at her like a cornered puppy.
"It's all right," Julian said gently, crouching down to Wilf's level. "Just tell me what's going on. You're not hurt, are you? Any family emergencies?"
"No — no, I'm fine," Wilf said quickly. He swallowed, then straightened, his expression suddenly confident. "It's come to my attention that I may have lacked certain manners and common courtesy toward my employer."
Gladys buried her face in her hands. The boy had a dreadful habit of sounding like some middle-aged solicitor, and that new girl — Dorothea — was only encouraging it further.
"That sounds serious," Julian murmured, though he waited patiently for the shoe to drop.
"I'm going off to do an audition for another role," Wilf continued in a rush. "I will be coming back to do this, of course — it's just for my next project and it's only for a day."
Julian blinked, then let out a low chuckle, clearly relieved.
"That's no problem at all. Directors do auditions too — we just call them interviews or a pitch." He reached for a binder. "Here. Have a look."
Wilf flicked through it, brow furrowing. "This isn't our script."
"No," Julian said easily. "That's my next project. Even while filming this, I'm speaking to agents, writers, producers. We never stop lining up the next job. You don't need to justify auditioning to me. No director worth their salt would begrudge you that."
Wilfred looked back at Gladys. She couldn't help but nod again for affirmation.
Julian paused, then frowned as he studied the exchange. "Mm. I don't like that look."
Wilf had gone sheepish again.
"Well… I'm actually going to New York."
"New York? America?" Julian repeated. "Well — of course you are. But how —"
"I've planned it," Wilf said quickly. "I'll go to Nottingham after my scenes and tutoring, then fly out. There's no direct flight, so it's longer, but I'll land in the morning because of the time difference. It's a short audition, my agent says it's practically booked. Then I'll fly straight back and be here on time for Monday's shoot."
Julian watched him rattle it all off, the confident performance of moments before replaced by the anxious child beneath.
"This isn't ideal," Julian said carefully.
Wilf shot Gladys an accusing look. She wondered, not for the first time, whether the boy would ever learn to mask his emotions. Actor he was, yet he wore his emotions on his sleeves.
Julian tapped his coffee mug, thinking. Making sure to drag the moment longer and longer. "How do we manage this…"
"Oh, don't be so cruel to the poor boy," Gladys snapped.
"All right, all right," Julian said, holding up his hands. A cheeky smile blossomed on his face. "Don't worry, Wilfred. We'll sort it. For a start, you're not shooting on Monday, anyway. Come and look."
He led them to the back of the room, where a large board covered the wall — the same one Gladys vaguely remembered from the read-through a week ago. It was a riot of colours and strips, utterly indecipherable to her.
"You look lost, Nan," Julian said kindly. "This is our stripboard. Producers, ADs, myself — we plan everything down to the minute. Of course, things change. Weather's one such culprit, but delays happen regularly due to human element. We pay for those with lost sleep and in dire cases, extra days of shooting."
Director seemed suddenly tired and he took a big sip of his mug. It seemed to have an immediate effect.
He pointed along the board. "Wilfred and Estella have given us some breathing room. Very few takes, very efficient. You don't get that out of child actors much. These yellow strips are interior scenes — we expected a full week and then some more in Newark, but now we've only got a handful of scenes left. Most of them are for adult roles."
He tapped a single red strip. Gladys realised this board is where the call-sheet that she found so useful in managing Wilfred's day were constructed from.
"The fight scene," Wilf recognised the colour immediately.
"Exactly. Herbert's actor was locally cast, short shoot, tiny part and all. Monday was meant for solo rehearsal with you and the coordinator. But the kid's called for Tuesday, and we'd likely shoot Wednesday. If all goes well, we'll wrap in under a week." Julian turned to Wilf. "But it depends on you. We've got more scenes today up until Estella gets mad. Think you can pull off another miracle?"
"Yes," Wilf said, without hesitation.
Julian smiled. "Good. Then don't worry. I won't need you Monday, you can rehearse with the Herbert kid on Tuesday. I've seen that you can follow instructions, action scenes are harder but we're going handheld anyway, it'll mask a lot of bad stunt. Older Pip scenes will go ahead tomorrow and Monday as planned, since you and Estella are on a mandatory rest. When you return, you rest up, you hear? Flying that far will take it out of you. I want you bright-eyed and bushy tailed on Tuesday."
Wilf stared at him, momentarily lost for words.
"Well? What do we say?" Gladys prompted.
"Um — thank you?" Wilf ventured.
"Don't thank me," Gladys laughed. "Thank him."
"Thank you, Julian," Wilf said properly. "I'll let you know once I book the role."
"Confident, are you?" Julian whistled. Then, he said firmly, "You're welcome. But next time — you tell me a week in advance. If we'd been behind schedule, you might not have been able to go. We are all laughter on set but I can be demanding too, you know."
Wilf laughed. Even as thick as the boy was, he could see through Julian putting up a tough face. "Understood, sir. See you on set."
"See you," Julian said.
Gladys eyed the office-cum-bedroom Julian and David were staying in and felt her mouth tighten before she managed a polite nod of thanks to the director. She'd known her fair share of directors since coming to help Erin with the boy. Julian unsettled her the most, truth be told. Franco had been exactly what he looked like — loud, flamboyant, no mysteries there. Steven had been all nerves and jokes, bless him. Julian, though, was quiet, guarded, never quite letting on what he thought. Still, after the children's performances — far better than she'd expected, if she were honest — he'd softened, almost relaxed. She wondered how long that would last once the pressure crept in.
The jokes might not be an act, she supposed. Directors had to be sharp when discipline was required. She could see well enough that the current arrangement suited him for now; results always bought kindness. But she'd lived long enough to know that smiles disappeared quickly when standards slipped. No proof, mind you — just instinct. And her instincts had rarely let her down, not in all her years.
Wilfred held Gladys' hands until they'd gone a good distance away from Julian's lodge.
"Thank you, Nain," he said with a side hug.
"It's okay, bach. Just make sure to give the courtesy they're due. Most people will work with you if you let them know, this goes for anything. Also, now you've got nothing to stress over while you're in New York." Gladys said.
Wilf smiled happily as they walked back to their lodge.
Clive and Aurélie left together, chattering about studio hire and fetching Erin and Ollie later. Gladys stayed put with Wilfred. Film sets no longer felt quite so novel to her. For all the boy's cleverness, he was hopeless at keeping track of where he was meant to be, so she'd taken to carrying the call sheet herself and making sure the boy was in the right place at the right time. Someone had to. It seemed even more important today because the boy had developed a very new habit of wandering off, chatting to anyone who caught his interest.
Costume first, then hair and makeup — she shepherded him along like a sheepdog, firm but fond. Maria joined her in the trailer, and they passed the time with quiet talk and shared sighs until boredom loosened its grip. Within thirty minutes, they stood watching from the sidelines when possible and in the other room when the set was too small to accommodate them. Miss Havisham and Estella made fun of Pip until he had to sing a song for them.
"He sings very well, your Wilfred," Maria commented.
"That's his talent. He loves music and practises endlessly," Gladys said proudly.
"My Estella's not very good at singing. We've had some vocal coaches but she's only passable," Maria added.
"She's very good at acting though is she not? Wilf is always going on about her. I think he sees her as a challenge."
"Oh?" Maria prodded.
"Yes. Wilf is like a sponge — when he sees a thing once, he'll know all about it. Singing, acting, dancing. He lives and breathes them in that order. Always been the best at those things wherever he went, so I think he's surprised that your girl's better than he is. You've taught her well," Gladys complimented,
Maria nodded knowingly. The woman had played in a few plays and musicals herself but had married quite soon after drama school. Now, she spent time teaching drama, dancing to children. Gladys had heard her mention it and clearly she'd poured much of her effort in ensuring her daughter had the best tools available.
"Thank you, but I can't take the credit. I failed — rather spectacularly — as an actor. I went from ensemble work in the West End to ensembles in local theatres, and finally to taking lead roles for free in community productions. That was the only way I ever got a lead, you see. Somewhere along the way I lost whatever drive I'd had for the industry. Then I fell in love and left it altogether. Teaching, though — that's what I'm actually good at, and it pays well enough. Estella… she has something I never did. Real talent. I barely taught her a thing. When you say Wilfred picks things up like a sponge — Estella's exactly the same. She's endlessly hungry to learn. She understands acting at a level I never reached, not really."
Maria shook her head as she said it, dismissive in tone — though Gladys caught the pride all the same.
"Why do you always call her Estella? I find it so confusing at times — Dorothea, then Estella, back and forth. It feels like we're talking about two different girls," Gladys chuckled.
"That's all Estella's doing," Maria said. Then her head turned sharply, checking the girl was still on set and well out of earshot. Satisfied, she went on.
"Dorothea is the serious one — at least when it comes to acting. It was always her thing. I fought the idea at first, because of my own time in the industry. Didn't want that life for her, the rejections and the poor wages. But the moment she started school it was plays, then musicals, then drama lessons, then dance — and before I knew it she was begging me to take her to auditions. The girl was always going to act. Sometimes I think she soaked up all my anger and resentment for the industry while she was in the womb and came out determined to take revenge on it for my sake."
Maria smiled faintly, something wistful passing over her face — nostalgia mixed with relief. The moment stretched a little too long before she cleared her throat.
"Sorry. It's just — I remember those first bookings so clearly. We've come a long way since then. But to answer your question — it started with her drama teacher telling her something new. I'm decent at teaching dance and theatrical acting, but screen acting isn't my strength. So I went practically begging at a big drama school, looking for someone who could teach her properly. They had books, systems — all these formalised methods I'd half forgotten from my own training.
#
"Dorothea became completely obsessed with one of them. Strasberg — the famous acting coach — his method is all about using your own memories to become the character. Everyone just calls it 'the Method'. She'd been doing that for ages, but then a friend of mine — an acting teacher — told her about Daniel Day-Lewis. Erm — do you know who he is?"
Gladys smiled. "The Age of Innocence actor. I remember him — mostly because Wilf goes on and on about the man. He's very good, from what I hear."
"That's exactly what her teacher did," Maria said. "Went on and on about Last of the Mohicans. Apparently he lived out in the wilderness for months — hunted his own food, built a house with period-appropriate tools, the lot. She swears she was trying to warn Dorothea off that sort of thing, but I think she was absolutely gushing about it to her."
Maria snorted softly. "Dorothea latched onto it immediately. Decided she had to live every role she played. Thank God most parts for a girl aren't seventeenth-century Mohican warriors. Still — her demands got more and more ridiculous, so I had to set some ground rules."
She ticked them off with her fingers. "She gets it in writing that the crew address her by her character's name and refer to the other cast by theirs. Off set, she stays in character as Estella or whoever she is playing — so she's been quite dark, quite sharp with her remarks. Exhausting, really — but far better than the nightmare she was at the beginning. Girl asking to live out in a tent for a week because she wanted to know what it was like to be on her own."
"Isn't that a bit…" Gladys began, then faltered, the word escaping her.
"Crazy?" Maria laughed. "Yes — completely. I've been telling her that for ages. This is the fifth time she's done it. I worry about what happens when she gets a genuinely complex role. Eleven-year-old girls are more or less the same, emotionally speaking. But she's utterly taken with the Method. Pretends she doesn't know what a mobile phone is, insists on period-appropriate language — Gladys, she's doing my head in."
Gladys couldn't help but laugh along with the nervous laughter from Maria.
"I thought our Wilf was mad," she said. "Spent a full day in an orphanage reading first-hand accounts of orphans. Went to churches to sing at Sunday service because that's what his character needed to do. Sounds like he might be doing something similar, it worries me."
"That's proper method acting — Stanislavski created it, Strasberg refined it," Maria said. "There's nothing wrong with researching a role, learning skills, drawing on emotions to make the character real. Dorothea just goes too far. I've had some serious conversations about how an eleven-year-old shouldn't be doing this sort of thing — developing brain and all that. But she won't hear of it. At least now she doesn't pretend she's in another century entirely, or someone else altogether. There's some amount of her left in the character."
"So she's always this Estella — even off set?" Gladys asked.
"Not quite as intense, but yes. I think even when she's giving it everything she can't stay immersed all the time. Estella lives in the eighteen hundreds — Dorothea gets into a car, goes to a restaurant full of electric lights. It's impossible to maintain that sort of mentality at all times unless you genuinely go mad. I've been trying to stop her pushing it any further, but she treats it like a challenge that she must conquer."
Maria shook her head, looking thoroughly worn.
"And how do you deal with it?" Gladys asked, gently keeping her talking.
The talk stretched on for hours. By the time it wound down, the two children they'd been dissecting were already finished for the day, changing out of costume somewhere beyond the set. Gladys watched the performances whenever she could — both children did wonderfully, and Wilf even had a chance to use that fine singing voice of his on camera. She noticed Maria stiffen at one particular moment, making special note as Estella's character unravelled on screen. That was when Gladys learned that the girl herself was wearing a character atop a character — Miss Havisham was teaching her how to break hearts of men. Estella they met was not the true Estella.
Gladys had always been a Jane Austen woman. Dickens had passed her by, for the most part. Even so, she could see plainly enough that the layers the child was carrying weren't just impressive — they were troubling. No eleven-year-old ought to be holding that much weight, not in their head, not in their heart.
She offered her two pennies, as gently as she could, echoing the worry she saw in Maria. Children had no business with method acting taken to such lengths. It was bad enough when they played at being someone else all day, but that was the thing — it was playing at a character. What Maria was describing about sounded like something else entirely.
As Gladys saw it, Dorothea and Wilf sat at opposite ends of the same stick. Wilf threw himself into Pip's feelings — the anger of it, the hurt — and it left him wrung out, sleeping like the dead once the scene was done. Dorothea, on the other hand, skimmed the ocean that was the emotion. Yet, she never let go of the skin she was wearing. Carrying a role home, keeping it on long after the cameras stopped rolling — that didn't sit right with her at all. A child should be able to come back to herself at the end of the day. If she couldn't, then something had gone amiss.
Maria stepped out of the trailer. "Tutoring session's about to start."
"And when will they be dancing?" Gladys asked.
"Last hour of it. Dorothea's managed to convince the tutor by labelling it as 'PT'," Maria smiled faintly.
Gladys chortled. "Since when is that a class?"
"I don't think it matters to my girl, she spun it right out —" Maria said lightly — then her attention was pulled elsewhere.
Gladys turned and saw Erin and Ollie standing a little lost amid the cables, rigging, and chaotic machinery of a production crew on set.
"Mam!" Erin called, hurrying over.
Gladys wrapped her daughter in a tight hug. "How have you been, love?"
"Good — really good." Erin pulled back, head on a swivel. "Where's Wilf?"
Gladys smiled to herself. Motherhood reordered the hierarchy of relationships — she couldn't fault Erin for it.
"He's inside doing his hours with the on-set tutor. Go on in and say hello — Tara won't mind, I'm sure."
Oliver followed after his wife after a short greetings. Clive came to stand beside Gladys and Maria, and the three of them watched as Erin and Ollie went inside. Wilf's carefully held seriousness vanished the moment he saw them, replaced by a bright, unguarded version of the boy he was. Tara smiled indulgently from her desk even though she'd lost control of the classroom.
Gladys's gaze drifted instead to Dorothea, who was watching the reunion with a look of mild distaste.
"Don't hold that against her," Maria said quickly. "It's the character. Estella isn't meant to like affection — or love of any sort."
"Oh, I understand that now," Gladys said, amused. "That's what makes it funny."
"Funny?" Maria asked.
"Watch how Wilf shoots a glare at your Dorothea whenever he can. I'm just wondering when Wilf's going to realise it all," Gladys grinned.
"He doesn't know?"
"No. He's been complaining nonstop about her being rude. Been making sure to call her Dorothea just to spite her, despite everyone else calling her Estella."
Maria stared — then laughed, loud and easy, drawing a few curious looks. She covered her mouth, trying to compose herself.
"Oh, that's rich. Dorothea's been saying the same about him. 'He keeps calling me Dorothea,' she says. 'He's trying to knock me out of character.'" Maria laughed again. "They're both thick as two short planks aren't they?"
Gladys smiled faintly.
"They're more alike than either of them would ever admit," Gladys said sagely. "That's usually the trouble with children."
Maria was all smiles too. "Adults are just as guilty. Men more often than women. Now I really want to see this dance duel."
"Care for a wager?" Gladys asked, keeping her face perfectly straight.
"You still think Wilf will win?" Maria raised a brow. "I'm not the best actor, but my girl is. But I've got the dancing feet in the family and did my best at teaching her and paid for better teachers too. She's been at it since she could walk."
"Oh no," Gladys said calmly. "I don't think Wilfred will win."
Maria blinked. "Then what are you betting on?"
"I'll back my grandson regardless," Gladys replied primly. "But you know what they say — things are more interesting with a wager involved."
Maria laughed. "Winning without effort does have its appeal too. You said he's only been dancing a year?"
"Just over," Gladys confirmed. "Though I suspect the most likely outcome isn't the one either of them expects."
Maria tilted her head. "Oh?"
Gladys's smile widened. She knew exactly what she was doing. Whatever the result was in their competition, Wilf would gain far more than if he won outright — even if he didn't realise it yet. Unlike her grandson, Gladys knew how to place a proper wager. The trick was to suggest a wager with the favourable outcome already included, then wager over the small parts — the ones that didn't matter.
"There might not be a clear winner," she said. "So let's make the wager with that in mind. Here's my proposal…"
Maria's eyes widened as the implication landed. She shook her head, sighed — then nodded.
Wilfred would do his best to win. He just didn't yet know he'd already lost when Maria agreed to the wager. Gladys couldn't help but look forward to seeing the expression on the boy's face once she let him know about the detail. He'd make a dirty face, she just knew.
Gladys Price had learned long ago that sometimes you did what was right for the Price men — whether they understood the reason or not.
Tutoring session ended right on time. Three generations of Prices stood together once more. All that remained was the dance.