The Breaking Point: Short Stories

by Daphne Du Maurier

  ‘And what if we had tested?’ asked the production manager. ‘Do you mean to say that I should have gone to Barry Jeans and told him the result? He’d have blown his brains out.’

  ‘Not Barry,’ said the director, ‘he’s a grand fellow. Barry’s all right. It’s just that . . .’ He looked about him desperately. ‘Do you mean there’s no way of combining the Forces?’ he asked the expert as a final gesture. ‘No way of using some of Vanda’s Force in their scenes together? I mean, she’s Force A, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s Force A all right,’ said the expert, still chewing.

  ‘Then how about it?’ said the production manager eagerly.

  ‘The ratio’s different for a female,’ said the expert, ‘and you can’t mix ’em. Not right now, anyway. Maybe in ten years when they’ve worked on it awhile.’

  The director spread out his hands in a movement of defeat.

  ‘I’ve had it,’ he said. ‘I’m through. I can’t make this picture.’

  The production manager, white to the lips, went to all the team in turn swearing each of them to secrecy.

  ‘There must be no leakage,’ he said, ‘absolutely none at all. If I hear there’s been a leak everyone is fired.’

  Then he called up Barry’s boys and asked for a consultation in absolute secrecy. He did not even want May. May must be kept out of it for the moment.

  The boys turned up, and they locked the doors of the production manager’s office and posted a guard outside.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Alf Burnell, Barry’s manager.

  The production manager for Gigantic Enterprises put on his horn-rimmed spectacles. He wanted the full weight of the news to sink in.

  ‘A very serious situation has arisen,’ he said. ‘A discovery was made on the floor this morning. Barry is Force G.’

  The boys sat in stunned silence. Then Bob Elder wiped his forehead. ‘Jesus,’ he said. He was Barry’s press-agent.

  ‘I need hardly tell you,’ said the production manager, ‘that I have sworn everyone to secrecy. And of course Barry himself does not know. We said there was a technical hitch.’

  Ken Dory, Barry’s dramatic agent, asked the two questions the director had asked about dubbing the Force or combining it with that of someone else on the set. The production manager put him wise.

  ‘Nothing technical can be done,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to work on a different level. I suggest psychiatry. Call in the Swede from International.’

  The boys whistled in unison. ‘May wouldn’t stand for it,’ said Alf Burnell. ‘She wouldn’t let a psychiatrist within a hundred miles of Barry.’

  ‘Then what are we going to do?’ asked the production manager. ‘You must realize that I’m responsible to Gigantic Enterprises for any hold-up, and a report will have to go through tonight.’

  Slip Jewett, Barry’s make-up man, leant forward.

  ‘We can say Barry’s sick,’ he suggested. ‘I can work on him. I can produce a grand jaundice for you if you’ll give the word.’

  ‘How does that help us in the long run?’ said Ken, who was a realist. ‘Jaundice would tide Barry over a few days, or maybe a few weeks, but after that?’

  ‘Yep, after that?’ said Bob Elder. ‘What am I to tell the press? That the Menace is Force G? Do we all have to go in the poorhouse?’

  The production manager took off his spectacles and polished them.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘sympathetic as I am to the long-term policy of you and Barry Jeans, that I am not concerned in it. Gigantic Enterprises have engaged his services for this picture on the full understanding that he rated Force A or B, or at the worst C. I doubt if Gigantic Enterprises would employ anyone of a lower category. I very much doubt it.’

  The stand-in, Bim Spooner, gave a gentle cough.

  ‘I was fooling around the floor the other day,’ he said. ‘I got talking to the feelie-expert. I got him to test me. I was Force A.’

  Nobody paid any attention to Bim. He was a good guy, but naïve. The secretary, Pat Price, stumped out his cigarette.

  ‘We won’t get anywhere in this without May,’ he said. ‘She’s got to be in on it. It’s tough, but there it is.’

  Bob Elder stumped out his cigarette likewise.

  ‘I agree with Pat,’ he said. ‘May’s closer to Barry than anyone else. Let’s throw the ball to May.’

  The conference was ended.The production manager took two more tranquillizers and went to lunch. The boys walked round in a bunch to the dressing-room. May was having sandwiches and Barry was asleep.

  ‘What’s cooking?’ asked May. ‘Barry told me the feelie gadget wasn’t working. I don’t know how they have the face to get Barry made up and on the set, and then find out the wires don’t click.’

  ‘It wasn’t the wires,’ said Alf, and he jerked his head towards the sleeping Barry. ‘Come outside.’

  He and Bob and Ken had agreed that they would explain the situation to May while the rest stayed in the dressing-room with Barry.They led her out of the building, and walked up and down the garden behind the studios. They did not mince matters. They let her have it straight. She took it well. And being a woman she went right to the heart of the matter.

  ‘It’s Vanda’s fault,’ she said at once.‘Barry never did think much of Vanda. Of course his Force is G when he’s on the set with her. She makes him shy.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Ken, ‘but he’s got to act with her, hasn’t he? That was all agreed when we decided to make this picture. It don’t matter a damn to Gigantic Enterprises if Barry hates the sight of Vanda. They want results. Barry’s got to rate Force A or they’ll fire him.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ cried May.‘Fire Barry? Fire the Menace?’

  ‘They’d fire the Almighty,’ said Ken, ‘if he didn’t do his stuff. The feelies are new, May. They’re going to kill everything that’s gone before. If Barry misses out on this he’s finished.’

  ‘We’re all finished,’ said Bob.

  They looked at May, who had aged about ten years while they were speaking. She knew they were right. She was a realist too.

  ‘We’ve got to get the rating up,’ she said, as though speaking to herself. ‘We’ve just got to make the grade.’

  ‘Do you think you can do it, May?’ asked Ken. ‘I mean . . .’ He broke off. After all, it was rather a delicate situation.

  ‘I’m going to try,’ said May. ‘If I fail . . .’ and she also did not finish her sentence.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Alf, patting her shoulder. ‘Don’t rush your fences. One thing at a time.’

  ‘How long have we got?’ put in Ken, as a reminder, while they were walking back to the dressing-room. ‘May’s never going to get the ratio up in time for work tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll ask for a twenty-four-hour postponement,’ said Alf. ‘G.E. can blame the barker. I’ll make it square with the chaps.’

  They found that Barry had woken up from his sleep and was eating porridge. The rare steaks were just a publicity stunt that had been worked in the distant past by Bob Elder. Barry practically lived on porridge. May signalled to the boys to leave them alone.

  ‘Well, honey,’ she said, ‘how would you like a little vacation?’

  Barry did not answer immediately. It always took time for any remark to sink in. ‘H’m . . . h’m . . .’ he said. Then he frowned, and wiped the porridge off his chin.

  ‘I thought we’d had our vacation,’ he said. ‘I thought we were starting work again.’

  ‘We are, sweetie-pie,’ said May, ‘but there’s been a postponement for twenty-four hours. A technical hitch with the new gadget. I thought we might go out and have dinner some place tonight.’

  Barry stared. ‘Go out?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, honey,’ smiled May. ‘The boys and I don’t think you relax enough. You’re worrying about the picture.’

  ‘I’m not worrying,’ said Barry. ‘I never worry.’

  He helped himself to more porridge. May frowne
d. It could be that with these new feelies diet and routine would have to undergo a drastic change.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ she said, removing the plate. ‘Too much porridge isn’t good for you. I tell you what. We’ll try out that place they’re all raving about in town, the Silver Slipper. We’ll treat ourselves to a really good dinner and get a little high, just the two of us. What do you say, honey?’

  Barry watched his plate of porridge go into the serving-lift. May pulled back the shutter and it disappeared.

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ he said. ‘I’d rather stay at home.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ smiled May, kissing the top of his head, ‘whatever you say.’

  Next morning Alf Burnell was awakened from sleep at six-thirty by the telephone ringing beside his bed.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘It’s May,’ answered the voice. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nothing doing?’ asked Alf.

  ‘Nothing at all. He played patience all evening and was sound asleep by ten. He’s still sleeping.’

  ‘I’ll wake the boys,’ said Alf. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be around.’

  He called a consultation for eight o’clock. After they had met and found they shared identical views on the next step to be taken, they jumped in the car and drove the five hundred yards to Barry’s place. May was waiting for them on the terrace.

  ‘I tried everything I knew,’ she said. She looked tired.

  She led them indoors to the living-room, and they all sat down. Alf cleared his throat. He was senior, and therefore spokesman.

  ‘Listen, May,’ he said, ‘you’re a grand girl, and we all respect you. We know how hard this is for you. But we can’t let sentiment ruin Barry’s life. I think we’re agreed about that.’

  ‘Yes, sure we’re agreed,’ said May.

  ‘Well, then, the boys and I think you’d best run off to the Country Club for a couple of nights and leave us to fix Barry.’

  The boys kept their eyes on the floor. They could not be sure how May would take it. She had guts, though.

  ‘Alf,’ she said, ‘I decided that myself at half-past three this morning. But I don’t think you’ll get anywhere.’

  ‘We can try,’ said Ken.

  ‘After all,’ said Bob, ‘there are some things a guy can’t tell his wife. Old Barry might come clean with us.’

  May handed round the cigarettes and poured coffee. ‘There’s nothing that Barry could tell you I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve looked after him day and night for thirty years.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it,’ said Bob.

  There was silence.The situation was tough all right.The question was, what next? Before any of them knew anything, Gigantic Enterprises would be on the line asking for news.

  ‘OK,’ snapped May suddenly. ‘I’ll disappear for a couple of nights. He’s all yours. Whatever you do, don’t hurt him.’

  ‘Atta girl,’ said Alf. The boys relaxed.

  When Barry awoke about ten o’clock and asked for his orange juice, Pat, his secretary, and Slip, his make-up man, were sitting on chairs by the window. The rest of the boys were below, talking on the telephone and keeping G.E. quiet for twenty-four hours.

  ‘Where’s May?’ asked Barry.

  ‘May’s tired,’ said Pat. ‘She woke up with a migraine head, and we called the doctor and he advised her to run over to the Club for a night or two and have massage.’

  Barry sipped his orange juice.‘I never knew May have migraine heads before,’ he said. He lay back on his pillow to think it out.

  ‘It’s her age,’ said Slip. ‘It gets women that way.’

  He came over to the bedside, propped Barry up with pillows and bolster, and began snipping at his hair with his scissors.

  Barry looked at the clock. ‘It’s after ten,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Pat. ‘We let you sleep. No work today. They still can’t fix the barker.’

  ‘Uhuh,’ said Barry.

  They ran his bath and gave him his breakfast, got him into his clothes, and then took him downstairs to the car. The car was drawn up outside the house, with the rest of the boys packed inside it. ‘Hullo, Barry,’ they called.

  Ken was at the wheel. ‘Hop inside,’ he said. ‘We’re going down to Poncho beach.’

  They all watched for Barry’s reaction. Poncho beach was ten miles down the coast, and there was nothing like it in the whole American continent between Los Angeles and Peru. It was that hot. If a star or employee of Gigantic Enterprises or any of the other big companies was seen there, he was fired. Alf Burnell had fixed this trip with the head of G.E. himself.

  ‘Poncho beach?’ said Barry. ‘That’s great. Can I swim?’

  ‘Of course you can swim,’ said Alf. ‘This is your day.’

  They got down to the beach about half-past eleven, which was about right for time, because it was then that the coloured boys and girls did the midday nude parade before taking to the water. Ken parked the car right on the beach near the huts, and Pat and Slip and Bim got the crate of lunch and liquor out of the car and dumped it beside the cushions and the lilos.

  ‘Have a drink, Barry?’ said Ken.

  He had been rattling the shaker, and he poured what was in it into a glass. ‘Try this, old son,’ he said. ‘It’s good.’

  Barry sniffed the glass suspiciously. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘It smells funny.’

  The boys all looked the other way. It was somehow hard having to deceive the Menace this way. But it was for his good.

  ‘It’s vitamin juice,’ said Don. ‘Just on the market.’

  Barry swallowed some and pulled a face. ‘Tastes sour,’ he said. ‘Do I have to take it?’

  ‘And another,’ said Ken. ‘Just put it down.’

  The girls and boys were coming down the beach as he spoke, and they were really something. None of them was above seventeen, and they were all hand-picked by the syndicate which ran Poncho beach from Rockefeller Center in New York. They were trained to walk that way, of course - the training was very stiff, and took six months - but the syndicate had taken advice from a ring of experts in Tangier and Port Said, and these kids made anything else look silly.

  They did the first dance right in front of Barry. It was only a warm-up, but it was quite enough for Bim. He got up and disappeared. The others stuck it and observed Barry’s face. He looked puzzled. ‘Do we have to watch these niggers?’ he said. ‘I’d like to swim.’ Alf motioned him to be quiet, and Don poured some more vitamin juice out of the shaker.

  ‘Wait for the feather dance,’ murmured Alf.

  The feather dance was really the works. Done with great delicacy and skill, but of course performed under the sun at eleven-thirty in the morning by these capable youngsters, it was a test of endurance for the spectators. Halfway through it Bob Elder and Pat Price and even Slip had to get up and disappear as Bim had done.

  ‘Where are they going?’ asked Barry. ‘Are they sick?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Ken impatiently. ‘Watch these kids.’

  The feather dance came to an end, and the performers who had survived it clapped their hands delightedly and made for the water. The spectators who found themselves overcome were edging with their chosen companions towards the bathing huts. Alf and Ken looked at Barry. He was lifting the lid of the picnic box and peering inside.

  ‘Those fools at home have forgotten my porridge,’ he said.

  Alf and Ken saw it was no good. If the kids on Poncho beach did not stir Barry, nothing would. Maybe they would have to try the Swedish psychiatrist after all.They hung around on the beach waiting for Barry to have his swim - he would not go into the water until all the kids came out of it - and then he swam round and round in circles, doing the breast-stroke. It was enough to break your heart.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, Barry?’ asked Alf.

  ‘Great,’ said Barry, ‘just great.’

  Ken went along to the restaurant to order steaks and champagne, and the rest o
f the boys flocked round him, looking shamefaced and foolish.

  ‘I tell you what it is,’ said Bob. ‘Barry’s hard-boiled.’

  ‘Nuts,’ said Ken. ‘We’re on the wrong track.’

  In the afternoon, after Barry had had his sleep, they went along to see the floor-show that was only shown to ticket-holders, and you had to get the tickets direct from Rockefeller Center. Alf produced tickets for all of them, and they sat jammed together in a private box. The boys agreed afterwards that the show was not a patch on the one put up by the kids on the beach, for all the sophistication, but Alf said it was a matter of taste.

  ‘It depends what you go for,’ he said. ‘This gets me.’

  After the show Barry went for another swim. Round and round in circles he went, his arms spread stiffly in front of him, while the boys threw pebbles in the water and discussed the situation.

  ‘Alf promised to call G.E. tonight,’ said Bob. ‘If we don’t call there’s going to be a row. Barry is due on the floor at eight a.m. tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There’s still sixteen hours in hand,’ said Ken.

  Barry came out of the sea. He looked wonderful.You’d never have guessed he’d been a household name for over thirty years.

  ‘What’s so great about the sea, Barry?’ asked Ken sourly.

  Barry sat down and began to dry the sand between his toes.

  ‘It takes me back,’ he said. ‘It’s like Herne Bay.’

  The boys packed up the lunch crate, and the cushions, and the lilos. What the hell was the use of coming to Poncho beach when all Barry cared about was Herne Bay? May was right.They knew nothing.

  ‘We’ve wasted about a thousand dollars,’ said Ken as he took the wheel of the car once more.

  ‘Not our dollars,’ said Alf. ‘G.E. paid for this outing.’

  They drove Barry back home, got him changed and into evening clothes, and took him along to the Silver Slipper to dine. Alf had arranged for the three loveliest girls on tap to G.E. to come and join them at the table. Bim had a grand time, and so did Pat, and Ken and Bob made good weather with the little Japanese beauty who had only arrived in Hollywood that morning, but it was no go. Barry kept complaining that they did not give him porridge to eat, and he was going to call up May and see if she could fix something.