by Judy Nunn
‘How did he do it?’ With a youthful lack of diplomacy Ada was looking from the photograph to Alexander and back again in disbelief. ‘How on earth did he do it?’
Alexander suddenly didn’t like the girl.
‘Archie’s a genius,’ Rodney said, and Alexander was about to dislike him too, until he continued, ‘Just look at that lighting and the grain of the reproduction, you’d swear that’s an Edwardian photograph.’
‘Yes, it’s a work of art all right,’ Alexander agreed.
‘Who’s the girl?’ Mickey asked. ‘She’s gorgeous.’
‘Suzie someone,’ Rodney said. ‘She’s not an actor, hasn’t even done any modelling. Simon wanted an unknown and she had the look he was after.’
‘What a pity we weren’t allowed on the shoot,’ Mickey said regretfully, casting a cheeky look to Sam. He was known to have a roving eye and she’d knocked him back on many an occasion in the past. Since he’d accepted their relationship was to remain platonic he’d often shared his lustful feelings with her. They made a joke of it.
But Sam didn’t return his glance. She was staring at the photograph, another sense of déjà vu stealing over her. There was no baby Phoebe in the photograph, certainly, but the pose was the same. The formal portrait. The husband standing, proprietorial hand resting upon the shoulder of his wife seated in a hard-backed chair. And the wife was a darkhaired beauty. It was Arthur and Alice Chisolm.
Together, they explored the upper floor of the house, and as they did, Sam tried to ignore the persistent similarities between the set and Chisolm House. The tiny rooms at the rear were the servants’ quarters with a shared bathroom and a small communal kitchen. The three large front rooms with bay windows were the master bedroom, Clifford Huxley’s study and the upstairs drawing room. An upright piano stood in the far corner of the drawing room, which again unnerved her, but she registered, with a vague sense of relief, that nothing else was familiar to her. Then she reminded herself that this was more than likely the way Chisolm House would have looked in the days of Arthur and Alice, which only added to her nagging feeling of déjà vu.
‘Everybody got the feel of the place?’ Simon had reappeared with Nick, takeaway coffee cups in hand, having left the actors alone to explore the set. ‘Right. Over to you, Rod.’
Once again they walked each room, Rodney explaining the technicalities, pointing out which walls were ‘floaters’, removable to allow camera access, and Sam was relieved to find herself back in the make-believe world of film.
They loosely blocked each scene, like rehearsing a stage play, Simon giving them their moves and key marks, encouraging them not to perform but simply to feel their space. It was a relaxing way to start work and Sam felt very much at home with his method of direction. He intended to film in sequence, and tomorrow they would shoot the opening scene.
Sam was called for hair and makeup at seven in the morning and, having arrived a good fifteen minutes early, she sat in her dressing room with the coffee which Ben had obligingly fetched her, and started on the Sydney Morning Herald’s cryptic crossword. But it didn’t make sense this morning, she was far too excited to concentrate. She picked up her script, but that didn’t help either. She knew her lines backwards and seeing them on paper meant nothing. Then finally she was summoned to the makeup room and her day began.
Two hours later she looked at herself in the mirror. The wardrobe and wig fittings, the discussions with Simon, the makeup artist’s experiments, all had come to fruition. She was looking at Sarah Huxley.
The hair was a mousy light brown, parted in the middle and tied loosely in a bun at the nape of the neck. The skin colour was pallid, bordering on unhealthy, and the powdered-down brows and lashes robbed her eyes of drama, giving them a timid look. She was dressed in a grey suit, with a high-necked jacket and mid-calf-length skirt. Modest and conventional, it was nonetheless of fine wool and well cut. Despite the year being 1935 and the country being in the throes of a depression, Clifford Huxley was a wealthy man and dressed his daughter in only the finest.
As Sam looked at Sarah Huxley in the mirror, she knew that she had the character. She watched herself shrink. She saw the uncertainty creep into her eyes and, as her shoulders imperceptibly hunched, the suit, now sitting on a defeated young woman, no longer looked well cut.
When she arrived on set, with the wardrobe, hair and makeup entourage, Simon was quick with his compliments. ‘Well done, team,’ he loudly announced, ‘you’ve turned a beautiful young woman into a mouse,’ and they all beamed with pleasure. But Simon could see that the defeat of Sarah Huxley was coming from within. ‘Good girl, Sam,’ he whispered. And, like the others, Sam found herself beaming with pride. Simon Scanlon had that effect upon people.
Simon called up the lights and the actors gasped in awe. The opening scene was set in the downstairs drawing room and the facade of the set had been wheeled away to expose the interior. A ceiling had been hydraulically lowered; it was a night scene and Simon wanted the effect of the chandelier.
The chandelier. Night-time at Chisolm House, Sam thought. Then she saw the portrait. It was hanging on the wall to the left, perfectly lit between two gas lamps. She walked over to it – they all did – quietly lost in admiration. It was a work of art. Simon had planned it as a surprise for them all.
‘The mistress,’ he announced when they were all gathered about the painting. ‘Clifford’s wife Amelia, she rules Huxley House. Isn’t she magnificent?’
There was a spontaneous round of applause and everyone turned to Rodney who gave a mock bow, accepting the compliment, but like all of the others who’d received praise from Simon, he too was secretly glowing with pride. He’d worked long and hard on the portrait, the same model who had posed for the wedding photograph sitting for him day in, day out. He might as well have been working for the Archibald Prize, he’d thought. But Simon Scanlon’s approval had been all he’d needed. The applause of the cast was just the cream on the cake.
Only Sam remained gazing at the portrait. She was thankful it wasn’t Phoebe. She didn’t know if she could have taken that. There was no rebellion, no provocation in this woman. She was neither teasing nor tantalising, but there was a power about her. It was a formal studio portrait. Hands crossed on the lap, she was impeccably groomed, her luxurious auburn hair conventionally parted in the middle and drawn back behind her neck. But her eyes met the artist in a steady, confident gaze. There was a strength and serenity in her beauty.
This was Amelia Huxley, Sam thought, not Phoebe Chisolm. But she was in the wrong place.
‘She should be over the mantelpiece,’ she said.
There was a pause. Sam’s voice had been peremptory and the others were taken aback, particularly Nick Parslow. It wasn’t like Sam to be dictatorial.
‘She’s absolutely beautiful where she is,’ Alexander said with a touch of disapproval. It wasn’t up to actors to change the set, he thought.
‘I put her there so that she’s the first thing you see when you come into the room,’ Rodney explained. ‘I thought that’s what Clifford would want.’ He looked at Simon who nodded approval. ‘Besides, she can’t go anywhere else,’ he added good-naturedly, ‘the lighting’s all rigged for her where she is.’
‘Amelia Huxley should be over the mantelpiece,’ Sam repeated.
There was another pause. They were all starting to feel uncomfortable.
‘Sam’s right,’ Simon announced. Samantha Lindsay was affected by the portrait, he could tell. He didn’t know why, but anything that worked for actors worked for Simon Scanlon. ‘Amelia goes over the mantelpiece.’
‘It’ll take us a while to re-light her,’ Rodney said.
‘Fine by me. Everyone to their dressing rooms. We’ll call you when we’re ready.’ As they trooped out of the studio he whispered in another aside to Sam, ‘Good girl. Use it. Use it.’
She looked at him, surprised. Did he know? But he didn’t.
‘Whatever you’re feeling, Sam,’ he said
urgently, his pterodactyl eyes disappearing into slits, ‘use it. It’s working.’
She would, she thought, as she went back to her dressing room. She’d use Phoebe and Chisolm House. She would tell no-one, not even Nick. But whatever strange force was coming into play, and there was certainly something, she wouldn’t let it frighten her. She would use it in whatever way she could.
Over the ensuing ten days, Simon Scanlon became obsessed with Samantha Lindsay and her performance. Something was driving the girl. He didn’t know what it was and he didn’t care, but she had metamorphosed before his eyes, and she was taking the others with her. She was inspired. As she looked up at her mother’s portrait, longing to be beautiful like Amelia, longing to earn her father’s love, she was achingly moving. The portrait became the centre of the household, and Sam had been quite right, Simon thought. Amelia belonged above the mantelpiece.
Sam was aware of the force that was driving her. She found herself living in two worlds. She partied with the others, enjoying their company. She walked around the harbour foreshores and through Hyde Park, revelling in the beauty of Sydney. On the weekend, she browsed through the markets at the Opera House and the Rocks. But the moment she arrived on set, she found herself in that other world. The world of Huxley House where no daylight penetrated. Where the drapes remained closed, upon Clifford Huxley’s instruction, and Amelia’s chair, a constant reminder of her presence, remained beside the bay windows where once she’d sat looking out at the garden.
The set and its eerie replication of Chisolm House no longer unnerved Sam. She accepted its claustrophobic embrace the moment she entered it, feeling herself instantly become Sarah. The house was her ally.
‘May I invite Mr Blackston to dine after the service next Sunday, Father?’
They were seated at each end of the large oak dining table, Sarah and her father. The dining room was adjacent to the downstairs drawing room, just as it was at Chisolm House. It had a similar bay window, and twin doors at the rear led directly to the servants’ stairs and the kitchen. Sam was glad that she’d never dined with the bed and breakfast guests at Chisolm House all those years ago, as it meant she held no memories of cosiness or familiarity that might interfere with the awkward distance between herself and Alexander.
‘You are mistress of this house, Sarah.’ Clifford’s tone was scathing. ‘You have no need to beg my permission. You are free to invite guests whenever you wish.’
There had been discussion in a previous scene of the Reverend Hugh Blackston. Sarah, skilled in flower arrangement, visited the local church each Saturday afternoon and prepared the floral arrangements for the Sunday services. Clifford had noted that, over the past several weeks, she had come home an hour later than usual. Curiosity had finally won out and he’d asked her why.
‘I take afternoon tea with Mr Blackston,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Father.’
‘God in heaven, girl, you’re twenty-five, you’re at liberty to see whomsoever you please.’ Clifford hated her servility.
And now she was asking the man to dine at Huxley House. Clifford was intrigued as to the intentions of Hugh Blackston – surely he couldn’t be interested in a mouse like Sarah. He had personally met Blackston on a number of occasions following the Sunday services he and Sarah attended, but he’d taken little notice of the man, just as he took little notice of anything connected with the church. He attended the services simply because it was proper that he should be seen to do so.
‘The Reverend Blackston is a most interesting man, Father,’ Sarah said in response to his enquiry, Clifford suspiciously noting an uncharacteristic animation in her eyes. ‘He is shortly to leave for the New Hebrides where he is to serve as a missionary.’
In accordance with the script, the budding relationship between Sarah Huxley and Hugh Blackston was never seen. Everything was contained in the house. And the buildup to the arrival of the Reverend Hugh Blackston was electric. The tension between father and daughter perfect, the housekeeper and the butler suspicious, like their master, of the Reverend’s intentions, the maid simply thrilled by the prospect of romance.
Simon Scanlon was delighted. Alexander was scaling new heights working with Sam. And so were the others. Fiona and Anthony and Ada were equally inspired.
‘Welcome to Huxley House, Mr Blackston.’ It was a wintry night and they stood around the cosy open fireplace in the downstairs drawing room, just the three of them, as Clifford proposed the salutary toast.
‘Thank you, Mr Huxley.’ Hugh raised his glass, returning the salutation. ‘She’s very beautiful, your mother,’ he said to Sarah of the portrait which was impossible to ignore.
‘She was. Oh yes, she most certainly was,’ Clifford replied, as if the remark had been addressed to him.
‘I can see the resemblance.’ Hugh smiled encouragingly at Sarah. He wasn’t lying, he had seen the same strength in Sarah’s eyes that he now saw in the portrait. But she had wilted in her father’s presence; he’d noted the same reaction after Sunday services when the three of them had met.
Sam looked at the love and encouragement which shone in Mickey’s eyes. He was a fine actor and he was giving her everything. She felt herself flush. The blood literally rose to her cheeks and she stared at the floor, avoiding Alexander’s penetrating gaze. Sarah was fearful that her father might read the love that unashamedly welled inside her.
Clifford watched his daughter’s embarrassment. He felt her cringe. And so she should, he thought. ‘I hardly think so,’ he scoffed. How dare Blackston pretend to perceive a likeness between Amelia and his mouse of a daughter. The man was a charlatan, he decided there and then. Who would have thought it? A man of the cloth. After his daughter’s money.
The scene in the dining room was even more fraught with tension, the servants hovering, at Clifford’s encouragement, as he repeatedly undermined Sarah.
‘We had such dinner parties here in the old days,’ Clifford said, ‘didn’t we, Beatrice?’
‘We did indeed, sir.’ The housekeeper smiled, then darted another quick look of warning towards the maid who should have been serving the trifle instead of staring at the Reverend as she had been doing throughout all four courses of the meal.
‘We don’t any more,’ Clifford continued. ‘Sarah’s not quite up to it. And a house needs a mistress for that form of entertaining. Isn’t that so, Billings?’ he asked as the butler poured his glass of dessert wine.
‘It is, sir,’ Billings agreed.
‘Perhaps Sarah doesn’t wish to entertain,’ Hugh gently suggested, deciding that it was time someone took a stand. He ignored Sarah’s horrified glance.
The man’s tone may have been mild, but the essence of his comment was not. ‘What exactly does she wish then, Mr Blackston, can you tell me?’
‘I do believe that she wishes to marry me, Mr Huxley, and I’d be most grateful if you’d agree to the union.’
The words were out before Hugh could stop them. He and Sarah had agreed that he would meet her father and then, over the customary port and coffee in the drawing room, delicately approach the subject. But Hugh had decided that Clifford Huxley was a tyrant who enjoyed bullying his daughter and the sooner Sarah was away from him the better. They would marry with or without Huxley’s consent.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ Clifford dismissed the servants, and Beatrice nudged the maid, who was openly gawking. When they had retired to the kitchen, closing the doors behind them, Clifford took a sip of his sauterne before continuing. ‘You realise that if I withhold my permission you will be marrying a penniless young woman.’
‘So be it,’ Hugh replied. ‘Your daughter’s money is of no interest to me, sir.’
‘Pray then, what is?’ Clifford sneered, glancing briefly at Sarah, who sat in silence, eyes downcast.
Hugh said nothing, but leaned towards Sarah and reached out his hand. She and her father were seated in their customary places at either end of the table, Hugh in the middle. To clasp his hand Sarah
herself needed to lean forward and extend her full arm. It would be a gesture of total defiance.
Clifford, who had ignored his daughter throughout the brief exchange, now turned his full gaze upon her, daring her to so openly flout his authority.
She didn’t hesitate, but reached out her hand. ‘I love him, Father,’ she said and, as her fingers entwined with Hugh’s, she abandoned her father. ‘And I will go with him to the New Hebrides as his wife.’
Clifford was speechless. Shocked by her brazen audacity. He took another sip of his sauterne as he fought to recover himself. He wanted to throw the glass of wine in her face. The ingrate. She had robbed him of his Amelia, and yet he had done his duty by her throughout her entire miserable existence. She’d had the best schooling money could buy, she wore the finest clothes, ate the finest food, she lived a life of luxury, and now she was going to desert him. Who would look after him in his twilight years? She owed him that much, surely.
‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘Well, there’s really nothing more to discuss, is there?’ He rose from the table.
They were right on schedule, and the day before the film unit was to leave for Vanuatu, they shot the brief final scene between Sarah and her father. Sarah had left Huxley House with Hugh that same night of the confrontation, and had been staying with his sister who lived in nearby Worthing. There had been further scenes shot in the house, mirroring the decline of Clifford Huxley, a defeated man, aware of how sorely he would miss his daughter, but too proud to beg her forgiveness. Now she had returned to say goodbye before sailing for the New Hebrides.
There was to be a wrap party after the shoot that day, and the others came in to watch the filming of the final scene. Huxley House had had its effect upon them all. It was as if they’d been making a separate film – ‘a film within a film’, as Simon had instructed – the work had been so intensely personal.
‘Sure,’ he agreed when they sought his permission to watch the filming. ‘Check it out with Sam and Alexander, and stay out of their eyelines of course, but so long as they don’t mind, it’s fine by me.’