Margery, who had not unnaturally looked quite stunned under the first impact of Fiametta’s fury, had by now recovered herself, and was beginning to look pretty angry. “Mr. Croombe-Peters,” she said, “will you explain…?”
Indeed, I had been about to remonstrate with Fiametta, but before I could say a word, La Fettini had launched a new line of attack, this time directed at me.
“And you’re no better than she is,” she went on, in a low growl that gave the impression of grinding teeth. “This morning? You mean to tell me that my valuable things were left lying about here until this morning? It’s for you to safeguard our property, no? Let me tell you, I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you. Any of you!”
“Miss Fettini,” Margery began.
Fiametta turned to meet the fresh attack. “Get out of my room!” she shouted. “Dirty cheating little thief! Get out before I call the police!”
Margery went very white, but she behaved with great dignity. For a moment I was afraid that she was going to descend to a slanging match with Fiametta, which would almost certainly have ended in violence of the most degrading kind. However, the dangerous moment passed. Margery gave Fiametta a look that would have withered anybody less arrogant or more sensitive, and walked quietly out of the dressing room. Fiametta had paused to draw breath, and I took the opportunity of intervening firmly.
“Miss Fettini,” I said, “that was a completely unwarranted attack on someone of the greatest integrity. It is utterly unfounded, as are your accusations of carelessness on my part.” I would dearly have liked to take the opportunity of pointing out that the responsibility lay with Gervase, but I decided that, at such a moment, the unit should present a united front. “The responsibility for clearing the rooms,” I went on, “lay with your maid and Mr. Meakin’s dresser. Understandably, both were upset and may not have been as thorough as they should. Your maid must have overlooked the lipstick case because she did not realize its value; you will find nothing else in that box except worthless bits and pieces. Your property was never in any danger, because since we were last here, this station has been securely padlocked by the London Transport Authority. Margery’s action in clearing up this morning was no more than a generous impulse to make things neat and pleasant for you. If you had not made this ridiculous fuss, you would have had your property back before now. In the circumstances, I trust you will withdraw your implications and accusations against the company and its employees.”
I thought, I must say, that I had put the matter rather neatly, and I could not see how Fiametta could avoid climbing down and apologizing. The maddening thing about women of her type, however, is their utter lack of logic. As soon as she realized that she was beaten—which happened about halfway through my little speech—she simply lost interest in the subject and stopped listening to me. Before I had finished speaking, she was already sitting down with her back to me with the box on her knees, deeply engaged in going through its contents, murmuring to herself as she did so. “Ah, my eyebrow pencil, and my little roll of cotton wool—and here’s that pretty pink nail polish, I wondered where that was…”
There was a sort of mesmeric quality about her sudden obsession with these trifles. We all stood around in silence, watching her, so absorbed that nobody noticed Keith coming in. It gave us all a start when he suddenly said, “What on earth are you doing, Fiametta?” in the same brittle voice that we had heard earlier that morning.
Fiametta looked up and held the box out to him with a ravishing smile. Her good humor seemed miraculously restored. “Look, Keith,” she cooed, “all my little treasures, the kind Poodge has brought back to me. All the little things I left in here and had thought lost. But no, all are here.”
To listen to her, you would think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Keith was apparently not impressed. “I thought I heard you raising hell,” he said, shortly.
Fiametta shrugged. “There was a little thing I thought I had lost.” She turned to Keith and gave him that dazzling, toothy smile which is renowned from Rome to San Francisco. “But now I have found it, which means that all day we shall be lucky. You will see. Everything I lost is here, so everything will go right. I know it.”
“Well, thank God for that,” said Keith, in his normal voice. He sounded tired, but the strain had gone.
Like a sigh, the tension relaxed. After a moment of silence, everyone started talking, quietly. Sam kissed Fiametta on both cheeks, and said, “Be ready in half an hour, luv.” He had evidently decided to take advantage of her present sunny mood, and not to refer to the unpleasant episode again. Gervase ambled out, calling for Harry. Keith and Sam strolled out together, discussing the motivation for the next shot. Fiametta, singing softly to herself, had already begun to remove her clothes in order to change into her costume for the day’s shooting. I escaped thankfully from the over-perfumed atmosphere of the dressing room and out onto the bleak platform.
As soon as I could, I went in search of Margery. I found her sitting at her typewriter, self-consciously isolated, and working with angry fervor. The fact that everybody else now seemed in good spirits had naturally done nothing but aggravate her sense of grievance.
“I’m sorry, Margery,” I began lamely.
She looked up sharply, with unfriendly eyes. “Please don’t mention it,” she said icily. “Perhaps sooner or later somebody will take the trouble to explain to me what it was all about.”
“Miss Fettini,” I said, “thought she had lost her gold-and-ruby lipstick case…”
“Gold and ruby?”
“Yes. The one I handed to her out of the box.”
Margery laughed shortly. “That’s nonsense,” she said.
“I agree, she was utterly unreasonable,” I said, “but when one thinks that something valuable may have been stolen…”
“Mr. Croombe-Peters,” said Margery, “I know something about jewels. My father was an expert. I can tell you categorically that that lipstick case was made of cheap gilt with a few chips of red glass set into it.”
“Then why?” I began, and then stopped. If Fiametta chose to put a great sentimental value on some trifle simply because Bob Meakin had given it to her, it was hardly fitting for me to discuss the matter with a junior member of the unit. The important thing was that Margery had been accused of dishonesty, and deserved an apology.
“Why, indeed?” echoed Margery, in a strange, cool voice.
And before I could say anything more, she got up from the typewriter and walked away from me. I was about to follow her, when Harry came up and told me that I was wanted on the telephone. This turned out to be a call from the office, demanding my presence urgently for discussion with the auditors who were dealing with our insurance claim. I am afraid that this drove all other matters out of my head for the time being, and in fact the financial discussions went on all day.
I had arranged to spend the weekend at my father’s place in Gloucestershire, and I drove straight there from the office that Friday evening. I had every intention, however, of contacting Margery first thing on Monday morning and putting matters right with her. I was not to know then that this would be impossible; for on Monday, Margery Phipps was no longer with us.
CHAPTER SIX
I FOUND MARGERY’S letter of resignation waiting on my desk when I arrived at my office on Monday morning. It was short and to the point. She regretted, she wrote in her large, looped script, that for personal reasons it was impossible for her to continue her work with Northburn Films, and that consequently she would not be reporting for duty today or any subsequent day; she enclosed, in cash, two weeks’ salary in lieu of notice, and trusted that this would be agreeable to us. We would find all the Continuity Sheets typed up to date and filed in the Production Office; she did not think that her successor would have any difficulty in taking over the work. She was sorry that she had to take this step, as she had enjoyed working on Street Scene, but she feared that she had no alternative. She wished us luck w
ith the film, and remained ours sincerely.
I read the letter twice, cursed Fiametta Fettini aloud, and told Sylvia, my secretary, to get me Margery’s flat on the telephone. I was surprised and disappointed that such a sensible and level-headed girl as Margery Phipps should have taken Fiametta’s rudeness so much to heart—for there was no other possible explanation for the “personal reasons.” Bitterly, I regretted that I had not found time to talk to her and soothe her ruffled feelings, as I had intended. However, there was nothing to be gained by brooding over that now. All I could do was to try, belatedly, to remedy the situation by tactful handling.
The phone rang, and I picked it up to hear Sylvia’s voice saying, “Is that you, Margery?”
“Yes.” The voice at the other end sounded sharp and edgy. If I had not known it was Margery, I wouldn’t have recognized it.
“Mr. Croombe-Peters for you,” said Sylvia. “Hold on. I’m putting him through.”
“Hello, Margery,” I said warmly. “Pudge here.” It went horribly against the grain to use my nickname to an employee, but I realized that it was just the sort of small thing which might make all the difference. “Now look here, my dear,” I went on, “I’ve read your letter and I’m really distressed by it. I don’t know what your reasons are, but I can make a good guess, and if I’m right in thinking that they have something to do with that ridiculous scene on Friday, I want you to know that I was and am entirely on your side. It was a disgraceful display of bad temper and discourtesy, and if you’ll reconsider your decision, I’m prepared to insist that Miss Fettini apologizes to you.” My heart sank at the prospect of implementing this rash promise, but I simply could not afford to lose Margery.
There was no reply from the other end of the line, so I went on. “I’m sure that you’re far too good a trouper to desert the ship at a moment like this.” My metaphors were becoming tangled, but that couldn’t be helped. “You’re a key member of the unit, you know, and if you feel that perhaps we haven’t appreciated you to the full, I can tell you now that I had already made plans to increase your salary, in view of the extra work you’ve had with all the retakes.” This was, of course, quite untrue, but I hoped that I made it sound plausible. “Now, what I suggest is that you meet me for lunch at the Orangery, and we talk the whole thing over. What do you say to that?”
Margery’s answer was short and eloquent. Without saying a word, she gently but firmly replaced her receiver, leaving me talking to myself, to the accompaniment of the dial tone. When I tried to call her back, the line was persistently engaged; and Sylvia, having reported the fact to the telephone exchange, came back a few minutes later with the information that the instrument had been left off its hook. It was abundantly clear that Margery Phipps was not prepared to speak to Northburn Films.
The next thing that happened, of course, was an urgent call from Sam. The unit had assembled at the Underground station; they were almost ready to begin shooting; and where was Margery, in God’s name? When I told him what had happened, Sam grew deadly quiet, which I recognized as a more ominous sign than a healthy outburst of bad temper.
“I see,” he said, in that flat voice of his in which fury was indistinguishable from ironic amusement. “My Continuity Girl has decided, at no notice at all, to leave for ‘personal reasons.’ My leading man is already half an hour late, which is perhaps a blessing under the circumstances. My leading lady is having hysterics because her pet monkey has caught a chill, my script writer has failed to deliver the alterations which were promised for this morning, and my lighting cameraman informs me that my next shot is technically impossible. All I needed to make my day complete was the news that you have undoubtedly bitched things up with Margery to such an extent that…”
“I resent that, Sam,” I said. “I told you; I did my best. If you like, I’ll go around and see her…”
“For God’s sake,” said Sam, “don’t do that. You’ve done enough harm already. Give me her telephone number and I’ll talk to her myself.”
“That won’t do you any good. I tell you, she hung up on me.”
“So would any sensible person,” said Sam, with what I thought was unpardonable rudeness. “I’ll handle her, even if I have to go around there myself. Whatever you do, keep out of this. Don’t attempt to contact her; leave it to me. What you can do is to get on to the studios and the union and have them send us somebody temporary, and the faster the better. We’re bound to lose at least half a day’s shooting, as it is.”
“Perhaps you appreciate now,” I said, “how fortunate you are to be two days ahead of schedule.” I knew that Sam was having a trying time, but he had been gratuitously insulting to me, and I was determined to get a little of my own back. “It gives you just the leeway you need to cope with an emergency like this. If I had listened to you and allowed you to…”
“Oh, go to hell. Give me Margery’s phone number and address, and get off the line,” said Sam. And then, in a different tone, “I’m sorry, Pudge. I know it’s not your fault. You’ll have to bear with me. It’s just that…”
I don’t know what he would have said next, because his voice grew suddenly faint, as he obviously turned away from the telephone to speak to somebody at his side. I heard him say, “Oh, has he? Does he? Oh, my God. Very well. Tell him I’ll be along in a moment.” Then, into the phone, he said, “Keith has arrived at last. There’s some sort of bother. Let’s have that number, there’s a good chap.”
Time after time I had been fooled by Sam’s sudden and disarming switches from rudeness to affability. Now, suddenly, I saw his famous charm for what it was—blatant, self-interested insincerity. Sam knew that he could push me so far and no farther, and each time as the red light showed danger, he would retreat and palm me off with a dab of flattery and good humor. At that moment I despised Sam Potman, genius or no genius; and I don’t mind confessing that at the same time I felt a thrill of pleasure at the realization that, ultimately, he was in my power, even if that power was vested in my father’s money.
“The number is Flaxman 08741 and the address is 716 Chelsea Mansions,” I said coldly. “I will arrange for a temporary Continuity Girl. Good-bye.”
I put down the receiver, being careful not to bang it. I wished to give an impression of dignity rather than bad temper. It was, I reflected with satisfaction, the first time that I had ever hung up on Sam.
I made no further attempt to get in touch with Margery, nor did I go near the location that day. I stayed in my office in what I hoped was a marked manner.
Whether or not Sam ever succeeded in contacting Margery, and what passed between them, I never knew. Frankly, after Sam’s remarks, I washed my hands of the whole affair. At all events, Margery did not reappear, and from the fact that Sam was careful not to mention the matter again, I surmised, not without satisfaction, that he had, in fact, either telephoned or called on her and had been snubbed as flatly as I had been. The temporary Continuity Girl—a plain but bright little person named Diana—was quickly and tacitly accepted as permanent; and considering the immense difficulty of taking over the job in the middle of shooting, she managed very efficiently. The tempo of work went back to normal, and we were all glad when, two days later, the shooting in the Underground was completed and we were able to move up into the fresh air of Hampstead Heath. But once again I am going too fast.
The day after Margery’s walk out, I put in an hour at the office, and then took a cab to the Underground station location, where I arrived at about quarter past ten. The first thing that hit me—and I mean hit—was the change in Fiametta’s attitude toward me. Having parted from her on the worst possible terms after the episode of the lipstick case, I was amazed and not altogether pleased to be greeted with an effusiveness which was even more embarrassing than her earlier hostility.
Now, I don’t wish to imply that, in normal circumstances, I would have been averse to one of the most beautiful women in Europe flinging her arms around my neck, kissing me on both cheeks, and dragging
me off to her dressing room. Taken by itself, Fiametta’s enthusiasm for my company was extremely pleasant; but taken in conjunction with other factors, it was distinctly disturbing. Perhaps I should explain a little more clearly what I mean.
In their efforts to build up film-making in the public imagination as a glamorous and exciting profession, the publicity experts have always taken great pains to play down the fact that the overwhelming sensation experienced by everyone—except perhaps the director—during the actual shooting of a film is dreary, frustrating, and seemingly endless boredom. Day after day, hour after hour, nothing whatsoever appears to be happening on the set. This is an illusion, of course; one man, or a small group of people, will always be working quietly and industriously among the electrical equipment or on rearranging the set or on painting a notice or working out a lighting plan. But while the few work, the majority wait. And wait. And wait.
These deserts of inertia, stretching yawningly between brief intervals of intense activity and emotional strain, make a dangerous breeding ground for the formation of cliques, for the fostering of petty politics, for the germination of spite and suspicion, and above all for the dissemination of gossip. Apart from the director himself, whose personality is bound to affect the whole unit, the man who can and should prevent an unhealthy and unpleasant atmosphere from forming on the set is the First Assistant Director, for he is in direct contact with everybody, from the stars to the humblest carpenters and plasterers, and the studio floor or location is his particular domain. In our case, I think I have made it clear that Gervase Mountjoy was about as much use as a sick headache as far as this—or, for that matter, any other—aspect of his job was concerned.
The very fact that Sam, Keith, and Biddy formed such an integrated group was in itself dangerous. Previously, Fiametta had identified herself—albeit somewhat tempestuously—with Robert Meakin. Patterns of friendship and suspicion, alliances and squabbles, had shifted kaleidoscopically among the key people on the set, that is to say, Fiametta, Bob, Sam, Keith, Biddy, and, to a lesser degree, myself. Now, Fiametta had returned from Rome to find herself very definitely the odd man out, excluded from the warm free-masonry of the hierarchy, and she was not only angry but, I suspected, genuinely hurt. So, inevitably, she cast around for an ally; and, equally inevitably, she picked on me. At least, that was my impression.
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