CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Sidney set down the script for the first episode of The Adventures of Robin Hood and gazed at Hannah, openmouthed.
“If all the scripts will be like this, it shall be a bonny brilliant show worth every penny it will cost.” His brow knit, and he rubbed his hands in a way that made him look like a criminal mastermind, if he weren’t so jolly. “And it’s going to cost quite a heap of pennies, I should think.” He whipped a pad from his jacket pocket and scribbled numbers furiously.
“I’m not worried,” Hannah said. “Dollars to doughnuts it’ll make a fortune, you’ll see. You have to spend money to make money,” she said, ignoring his baleful look. “This is going to look as good as any film. I want top cast, top crew, a historical consultant . . . and a woodland.”
Sidney’s pencil tip snapped off, smudging the page. “A what?”
“A bit of woodland. Robin Hood and the other outlaws are living rough in Sherwood Forest. We’ll have the best sets anyone’s seen, but we’ll shoot as much outside as we can, and for that to look excellent, we need real woods.”
“I well respect wanting to own good land,” Sidney began. “But even assuming we could ever dream of raising such a sum, it’s still England we live in. Been known to rain a wee mite, and no respecter of a shooting schedule, the weather is.”
“We’ll work around the weather and I’ll find the money.”
“Also a wee little lamp to rub, I should think.”
Hannah grinned. “Bring on the best story editor you know. I’ll order a few more scripts. Don’t worry,” she added with a wink. “They all work for scale.”
“Scale” meant Screen Writers Guild minimums, suitable for either a green writer with no other credits or a blacklistee, whose involvement had to be hidden if Sapphire hoped for the cash cow that was American distribution. They would never pay less than scale, but until they knew they had more money and security, they wouldn’t pay more. It hadn’t stopped the Oscar-winning screenwriter Ring Lardner Jr. from enthusiastically agreeing to write the pilot, and he was going to be their chief writer. Ring had made waves during his HUAC hearing when he was asked, “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” and he replied, “I could answer the question exactly the way you want, but if I did, I’d hate myself in the morning.” And so one of Hollywood’s top writers was soon sent to prison for contempt of Congress.
Ring was now free but, like too many others, struggling to find work. Robin Hood was a gift, and not just to his family’s dinner table. He recognized the connection between the medieval Robin Hood and the modern blacklist just as clearly as Hannah did. The cruelties of a feudalistic world full of spies and turncoats, and a hero who sees that liberties, progressivism, and yes, a little wealth redistribution, would make for a healthier and happier society.
Ring lived up to his reputation, and had written a superb script. Hannah was especially pleased to see that the script wasn’t polemical, or even overtly political. It was just an exciting story. Kids would watch the program wide-eyed, leaning as close to the screen as they could so as not to miss a moment. Adults would enjoy the interplay of relationships and the hint of romance, and it was little enough of a hint so as not to spur a universal eye rolling in the boys.
If this goes well, we can get a thirty-two-episode season. What a lot of hungry writers that could feed.
* * *
• • •
Hannah surprised Sidney by taking the presentation to the Independent Television network, so new it didn’t yet have anything on the air.
“Why take the risk with ITV?” Sidney asked. “Surely the BBC is where to go. Haven’t they aired more than one of our programs?”
Hannah waggled her eyebrows at him. “ITV is young, hungry, and eager for content. They want to make a mark, and the only way to do that is to be bold. We are the boldest show in town.” She paused, watching him nod slowly, then moved in for the kill. “Also, they have capital and will have advertising, so they’ll be willing to splash out on the budget.”
“Let’s be off like a loosed arrow!”
* * *
• • •
Two days later, they inked a deal with ITV. Their liaison, Mr. Pierce (whom Hannah thought looked all of sixteen), was nearly salivating.
“Robin Hood, brilliant! Crikey, I always loved those stories. Who didn’t? Thanks for bringing this to us, Miss Wolfson. Thanks a lot.”
It wasn’t an absolute yet. They had to see a pilot. But they were clear that a good pilot would mean an order of thirty-two episodes, to start as soon as possible. They wanted to change the face of television.
When Hannah and Sidney reached the street, Hannah threw out her arms and whirled around, not caring who saw her or what they thought. Sidney thought they should be cautious of tempting fate. Their venture could not stay so charmed forever.
“Caution is for tomorrow,” Hannah said. Perhaps Sidney was right, but in this moment, Hannah was far too happy to care.
* * *
• • •
Paul took a long sip of the Tom Collins Hannah had mixed him.
“Ahhh. What a beauty. I don’t know how you do it, sweetheart, but it always tastes like the Yankees winning the first game of the season.”
“If I can get it to taste like a World Series win, I’ll seek my fortune as a barkeep,” Hannah promised.
Paul dropped a kiss into her curls. “Good god, I miss baseball.”
Hannah didn’t. They’d been to a rugby match, a wild and violent spectacle that nearly made Paul faint. It was the first time Hannah saw the thrill of watching a sport. She knew what he meant, though. She knew he missed the crack of the bat, the wooden benches, hot dogs heavy with mustard, and bags of peanuts in the shell.
“You should write a story about British sport,” she said. “There must be some rookie player on some team who had a dreadful war childhood and is now recapturing some joy in his life, realizing a dream and all that sort of thing.”
Paul gazed at her in admiration. “I married a smart lady, didn’t I?”
She ran her finger under his lower lip. All these years, and she still couldn’t look into those eyes long enough.
“The smartest thing I ever did was say yes,” she told him. They kissed for a long time and were still kissing as Rhoda marched into the room, singing, “Hurray for Captain Spaulding, the African explorer!”
They broke apart and Hannah marveled at her daughter doing a disturbingly good impression of Groucho Marx. “Did you teach her that?” she asked Paul.
“The film was on television, so that box is good for something, it seems.”
Hannah laughed, but wished Paul wouldn’t always criticize television.
“I’m glad you think so,” she said, as he handed Rhoda an unlit cigarette to use as Groucho’s cigar. “Because I’ve got an amazing chance. There’s two acres of woodland right adjacent to the studio we’re looking to rent for Robin Hood, and if Sapphire can buy it, we—”
“Woodland?” Paul sounded out the word as if he were trying to parse Aramaic. “You want to own woodland? What’s next, a duchy?”
Rhoda was now mixing the lyrics of “Captain Spaulding” with those of “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” but Hannah stayed focused on her purpose.
“It’ll work out much cheaper than renting, and far more practical. More importantly, it’ll pay for itself by looking so evocative. It’ll feel real because it is.”
“Yes, men in tights dancing about castles and fires is what I call real, all right.”
“Well, apparently if we went to Stonehenge on Midsummer Night . . .”
He guffawed. “Woodland. At least I know for sure this one is your idea, not that Scotch man’s. Scottish.” He wrinkled his nose, considering her. “A loan?”
“A loan.” She kissed him. “Sapphire will
pay you back when we’ve got our American distribution deal.”
“Oh, all right, so the twelfth of never.”
Hannah laughed and smothered him in kisses, which made him laugh too. She was so happy, she jumped up to dance with Rhoda. Gemma brought in Julie, and Hannah swooped her up to dance as well. Paul shook his head, but joined in the merriment. Hannah swirled. All those Communist hunters were so sure they’d frightened everyone into behaving and that no one would dare try to defy them by thinking a thought they deemed dangerous. And here was Hannah, putting on a show that would defy them every week, and give work to those they said deserved neither liberty nor happiness, and probably not even life, if HUAC could get away with that.
Hannah spun harder, and Julie shrieked with joy.
* * *
• • •
The weeks of preproduction slid by like a dream through the spring and early summer, going so smoothly that Sidney organized vases of white heather to be displayed throughout the Sapphire offices. It was meant to be good luck and, he hoped, would ward off the bad fortune that must be waiting to rear its head and spoil everything.
“And here I thought the evil eye was a Jewish superstition,” Hannah said.
“How can you be so calm?”
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “I’ve never been so excited in my life!”
It was happening. The show had been cast, the costumes made, the sets built. They rented space at Nettlefold Studios in Surrey, and Hannah, thanks to Paul, bought the adjacent woodland. They shot a pilot, and ITV approved the full season virtually within hours of everyone viewing it. Ring had written three more scripts and had chosen his pen name: Lawrence McClellan. The filming schedule was locked. Hannah sent the pilot to various contacts in America. It wasn’t just about the money they’d reap for ITV. She wanted Robin Hood seen by Americans. She wanted the children of Communist hunters to learn, however obliquely, that the hunt was wrong, that it went against every value meant to be American.
Ring spread the word among blacklistees at home, and Hannah whispered around the exiles in London. Five more blacklisted writers were given assignments. Then five more. A few grumbled about working for scale after having been so well paid, but as Sidney said, Sapphire was taking a risk hiring them. If word got out to the wrong people, that would be the end of American distribution—for Robin Hood and any other Sapphire production. It took a lot of work to keep the secret safe. That cost something.
Officially, every writer for Robin Hood was an unknown. Even Sidney didn’t know all the details. Hannah shouldered that burden herself. There was one copy of the list of real names and their corresponding pen names, and Hannah kept that under the lining of her bottom desk drawer.
You couldn’t be too careful.
* * *
• • •
“This is Miss Connolly,” Sidney said, introducing the young woman he pronounced a “dead-clever up-and-comer.”
“Best story editor there is to be,” the young woman said before Sidney could say more. Her accent was even harder than Sidney’s to grasp—higher and more singsongy, and she spoke quickly. “I prefer just to be called Beryl, if you hire me. I was quite the roared-at ‘Miss Connolly’ all through school.”
“You’re Scottish as well?” Hannah said, hoping she was right.
Beryl’s eyes crinkled in approval and she turned to Sidney. “Not ‘Scotch,’ like yon Yanks like to say. Ye’ve taught her finely.”
“Miss Wolfson is a woman of understanding,” Sidney protested. “You’ll see. You two talk,” he added, leaving Beryl in Hannah’s office.
“You may as well know,” Beryl said in a sharp, rushed tone. “I’ve not been to university. I came up through theater in Glasgow.” She put an emphasis on it, and her button nose turned up proudly. “Rougher stuff than yon Sidney’s Edinburgh.”
To Hannah, these were just cities on a map, but she knew people from Brooklyn who would declare war on anyone who thought New York meant only Manhattan, so she nodded respectfully. Beryl had a pointy, intelligent face, and Hannah was impressed by how she’d flouted fashions and cut her dark red hair into a 1920s-style bob. She dressed like a Teddy Girl, in knickerbockers and a men’s tweed jacket. Hannah noted a monocle tucked in her waistcoat and a pipe sticking out from her breast pocket.
“We’re a small operation for now,” Hannah told her. “It’s really just us here in the offices, and Sidney and I will be going to the set quite a bit. I don’t just need a story editor, I need an assistant, someone who can manage what’s going to be a lot of fast-moving business and never drop a ball—”
“Child’s play. Done it all and more for Dickensian wages, ’tis the world of radical theater,” Beryl interrupted. “I’m hoping for a challenge.”
Hannah raised her brow and leaned forward. “All right, how’s this for size? You can’t ever accept any registered letters, especially if they’ve come from America.”
“Jings!” Beryl cried, properly stunned. “Why not?”
“It’s a precaution,” Hannah explained. A registered letter could be a subpoena. It seemed unlikely, but who knew? “Prove yourself and I’ll explain more later.” She grinned and Beryl grinned back. Hannah was delighted. “Your desk is just outside. Read all the scripts we have by lunchtime. Check for character arcs, any inconsistencies, any language that’s too modern. Our audience will be kids, but this show is going to be smart. No slacking. Let’s pick this up again at two, and I want a full report and marks on anything of concern. No detail is too small.”
“Nae, it shan’t be,” Beryl promised. “I’m known for being fierce on details. The Himmler of Proper Dialogue, I was once called, and I took it for a fair compliment.”
“Good,” Hannah said, standing. “One more thing. The scripts must be entertaining, whatever the content. You were a kid not so long ago, feel free to tweak as necessary to make sure each script is a humdinger.”
Beryl grinned broadly. “May I smoke my pipe?”
Hannah tossed her a matchbook.
* * *
• • •
It took less than a week for the three of them to become a stellar team. Beryl asked no awkward questions about the scripts or possible registered letters and was promptly as passionate about Robin Hood as the others. Hannah was elated. Her only trouble was when Sidney and Beryl got into a spirited argument, which happened several times a day. Hannah had no idea how an English person would fare trying to understand their accents at top speed, but New Yorker though she was, it was hopeless. She felt curiously left out, a child trying to understand a grown-ups’ conversation. She wouldn’t dream of telling them, it would be far too embarrassing, but it made her more grateful than ever for her little circle of Americans in exile.
“Well, at least you understand Rhoda,” Shirley said when Hannah confessed her trouble understanding her own employees. Now that Rhoda had started kindergarten, her accent had hardened into that of the native Briton Hannah was always startled to remember she was.
“Except when she says things like ‘Aliens might live in hairbrushes,’” Hannah rejoined, and they laughed. Hannah needed that laughter, needed it to erase the loneliness she sometimes felt at work. Julie was talking more every day, and learning from Rhoda. Soon Hannah would be living with two foreigners.
Except that it was she who was the foreigner, and she knew it was critical she remember that. Britain gave her security and opportunity. The better she did by it, the more she might be able to rely on its protection if she ever really needed it.
* * *
• • •
Beryl came into Hannah’s office with a pile of scripts.
“These are all revised and ready to go.” She began ticking off her fingers. “We’re still needing nine scripts to finish the first lot though, as you know; the historical consultant rang to moan about the men’s hair not being medieval enough; and the
girl engaged for script supervision says she’s now engaged to be married, so she’s skipping off to the land of satins and lace or some such rubbish.”
Hannah removed her shoes and circled the office—these sorts of problems stimulated her. “Of course we want to be historically accurate, but remind Mr. Oliver we have to be reasonable.” She picked up a photograph of Richard Greene, their Robin, in costume and makeup. “Sure looks handsome to me, and wouldn’t with the medieval wig. I want the kids laughing at the jokes, not the hair.”
“I’ll be delighted to tell him,” Beryl said, her eye glinting behind the monocle.
“I’m expecting more script submissions this week, and do please make some calls to get another script supervisor in. There must be dozens of sharp girls who’d love the job.”
A few days later, Hannah and Sidney were arguing over possible guest actors and didn’t hear the downstairs bell, or Beryl go to answer. They jumped, however, when Beryl stalked to Hannah’s door and interrupted with a loud harrumph.
“There’s an American come to call, says she’s a television writer, wants to give you a script for consideration and even see you if she might and doesn’t seem to have heard of such things as appointments and that she’ll wait.”
“That sounds like an American, all right,” Sidney said. “Or a Glaswegian,” he added, winking at Beryl.
“Watch yon tongue!” she snapped.
A woman. A writer. It could be the perfect cover story for an FBI agent. Or it could be something novel. Hannah was intrigued.
“Did she give a name?” Hannah asked.
“Phoebe Adler,” Beryl said. “Says she wrote for a tec show called At Your Service. On the Adelphi network. What the devil is that then?”
Hannah glanced at the American newspapers and industry trades strewn over her desk. The Los Angeles Times happened to be folded open to Hedda Hopper’s latest screed about “Runaway Reds” that asked, “Are they now plotting from abroad?” Hedda Hopper was given to ridiculous hats and an excess of ruffles, but she was a woman with power. Hannah knew it was only a matter of time before she herself drew someone’s attention. But if she knew anything about how Hoover’s FBI worked, she knew none of his Hounds would try to gain entrance to her with such a feeble credit. At Your Service barely made the Nielsen charts. Phoebe Adler must be genuine. Hannah pondered. A female Hound, if such existed, would carry a subpoena in her bag, or, at a stretch, a coat pocket.
Red Letter Days Page 10