Read Online Merely Players by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Gregson
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Tucker. Iâll be in touch again as soon as I have further details for you.â
A sharp, cold, November Saturday. The market in Brunton has been a covered one for many years now, but the market hall is chilly today. The men and women serving fish and vegetables wear mitts and flap their arms across their chests between serving their early customers. The nation moved its clocks an hour back and returned to Greenwich Mean Time a fortnight ago; the town has its first ropes of coloured lights and the shops their first posters announcing that Father Christmas will be in attendance from the beginning of December.
Lucy Peach is shopping, secretly enjoying the novelty of being a housewife. She is meeting her mother for lunch at twelve; she has resigned herself to being quizzed about married life and her views on producing grandchildren at an early date. Percy Peach is playing in the monthly medal at the North Lancs Golf Club, seeking to reduce his already respectable handicap of eight. He sniffs the cool, clear air and looks to the north, to the heights of Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent: the mountains which look surprisingly close as the sun climbs a little higher. Not many better places to be on a day like this, he remarks to his companion; it is always easier to feel like this after landing a 5-iron on to the green at a par three. Percy has always preferred the cool sun of winter to the more torrid temperatures of June and July.
Ten miles north of Peach, on the moors which rise beyond Clitheroe and Waddington, Adam Cassidy is also relishing the day and its sport. There is a carpet of frost up here this morning, but the whiteness is disappearing now, except in the shadow of the dry stone walls. There is the first dusting of snow on the top of the great mound of Pendle Hill to the east. A great morning to be alive and on the moors, he and his companions assure themselves repeatedly.
Adam had never thought when he was a boy that he would join those shooting grouse on the moors: only toffs whose lifestyle was totally outside his experience did that. Yet that seemed to him a very good reason why he should be here now. He held his shotgun in the crook of his arm and chatted happily to the landowner who had invited him to shoot with his party. Adam wasnât an expert shot, but he didnât need to be. There were others here who were as bad as him â and in one case plainly worse. Shooting was expensive, and the invitation to participate was used to cultivate acquaintance or to return favours. In his case, it was one of the more acceptable rewards of celebrity. People, even people who had standing and influence, wanted to be seen with you, wanted to feel that they were in touch with the glamorous world of show business and television. So why not take advantage of that, when it could bring pleasure to others as well as yourself?
It was his third shoot in all, but his first of this autumn. One of his first television appearances as a young actor had been as a servant in a play about Edward VII and Lillie Langtry. His function had been to hand the portly monarch a loaded gun and then say âGood shot, Your Royal Highness!â whilst the corpse of a bird plummeted in the background. He remembered it vividly and with affection, not least because the well-known actress playing the Jersey Lily had taken him into her bed for a brief fling. That had been a memorable experience in itself. More importantly, it had raised the standing of the unknown young bit-part player on the gossip grapevine which flourished amongst actors and directors. Being noticed was very important at the outset of a career, and young Cassidy had taken full advantage of the opportunities which resulted.
He brought down a couple of grouse early on, which established his credentials and made the rest of the day more enjoyable. He enjoyed the trappings of the day more than the shooting itself. In a relatively small party, he was able to relax, almost in fact
A sharp, cold, November Saturday. The market in Brunton has been a covered one for many years now, but the market hall is chilly today. The men and women serving fish and vegetables wear mitts and flap their arms across their chests between serving their early customers. The nation moved its clocks an hour back and returned to Greenwich Mean Time a fortnight ago; the town has its first ropes of coloured lights and the shops their first posters announcing that Father Christmas will be in attendance from the beginning of December.
Lucy Peach is shopping, secretly enjoying the novelty of being a housewife. She is meeting her mother for lunch at twelve; she has resigned herself to being quizzed about married life and her views on producing grandchildren at an early date. Percy Peach is playing in the monthly medal at the North Lancs Golf Club, seeking to reduce his already respectable handicap of eight. He sniffs the cool, clear air and looks to the north, to the heights of Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent: the mountains which look surprisingly close as the sun climbs a little higher. Not many better places to be on a day like this, he remarks to his companion; it is always easier to feel like this after landing a 5-iron on to the green at a par three. Percy has always preferred the cool sun of winter to the more torrid temperatures of June and July.
Ten miles north of Peach, on the moors which rise beyond Clitheroe and Waddington, Adam Cassidy is also relishing the day and its sport. There is a carpet of frost up here this morning, but the whiteness is disappearing now, except in the shadow of the dry stone walls. There is the first dusting of snow on the top of the great mound of Pendle Hill to the east. A great morning to be alive and on the moors, he and his companions assure themselves repeatedly.
Adam had never thought when he was a boy that he would join those shooting grouse on the moors: only toffs whose lifestyle was totally outside his experience did that. Yet that seemed to him a very good reason why he should be here now. He held his shotgun in the crook of his arm and chatted happily to the landowner who had invited him to shoot with his party. Adam wasnât an expert shot, but he didnât need to be. There were others here who were as bad as him â and in one case plainly worse. Shooting was expensive, and the invitation to participate was used to cultivate acquaintance or to return favours. In his case, it was one of the more acceptable rewards of celebrity. People, even people who had standing and influence, wanted to be seen with you, wanted to feel that they were in touch with the glamorous world of show business and television. So why not take advantage of that, when it could bring pleasure to others as well as yourself?
It was his third shoot in all, but his first of this autumn. One of his first television appearances as a young actor had been as a servant in a play about Edward VII and Lillie Langtry. His function had been to hand the portly monarch a loaded gun and then say âGood shot, Your Royal Highness!â whilst the corpse of a bird plummeted in the background. He remembered it vividly and with affection, not least because the well-known actress playing the Jersey Lily had taken him into her bed for a brief fling. That had been a memorable experience in itself. More importantly, it had raised the standing of the unknown young bit-part player on the gossip grapevine which flourished amongst actors and directors. Being noticed was very important at the outset of a career, and young Cassidy had taken full advantage of the opportunities which resulted.
He brought down a couple of grouse early on, which established his credentials and made the rest of the day more enjoyable. He enjoyed the trappings of the day more than the shooting itself. In a relatively small party, he was able to relax, almost in fact
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