Writers’ Block was deserted when she arrived except for a woman called Mercedes. Mercedes was attached to the studio’s vast army of cleaners and polishers but her sole task was to water and groom the potted plants, polishing their leaves and snipping off any dead foliage with scissors worn chained to the belt of her uniform. It all seemed extraordinarily labour-intensive but the whole of America was like that: one monumental job-creation scheme. There were men to press the buttons in the automatic elevators, men to open and close doors, men to park your car. There were coin-operated cigarette machines everywhere and yet every bar or restaurant retained a young woman in a heavily-boned playsuit wielding a tray of filter-tips.
As soon as Mercedes had left, Evelyn shut herself in her office and asked the operator to please connect her to the mysterious New York number she had spotted in the XYZ section of HP’s Rotadex. It was more than twenty minutes before the exchange rang back – it seemed that the whole of Los Angeles called the East Coast at that time on a Monday morning. Lady Genista was not available so she explained her difficulty as guardedly as she could (walls, ears) to a man called Gregory Fenn who sounded exactly like David Niven and was remarkably hard to rattle.
‘The man’s name was Klaus Huber.’
He cut her short.
‘No names, no pack drill. Not on the blower.’
‘Oh yes, of course, sorry.’
When he next spoke his accent had undergone a curious change, like an actor stepping into character: less public school, more public transport.
‘I expect you are telephoning about your role with our West Coast branch? I realise that the, er, lady who conducted your preliminary interview may have indicated that there was a permanent position available but there has been a shake-up of personnel and I’m afraid that, in the unforeseen absence of your immediate superior, the post as such no longer exists and you are therefore surplus to requirements our end. Obviously we never like to sever all ties with any ex-employee, casual or otherwise. We’d still be happy to keep you on our books – in a purely unofficial capacity, you understand – so that if a freelance project of any significance were to come your way you could avail yourself of our expertise. You with me?’
‘But –’ Evelyn struggled to find the necessary job-seeking jargon ‘– the gentleman I mentioned seemed very much aware of my background. I was quite surprised.’
‘Standard procedure on our competitors’ part,’ said the unflappable Gregory. ‘We would expect them to keep abreast and his close interest in such matters has long been anticipated. The firm has taken considerable pains to advertise your reputation in your particular field. No one could be better qualified. We are all, naturally, disappointed that our man will not, after all, be working with you but, on a more positive note, it’s very comforting to hear from our sources that you have landed on your feet over there. Your, er, prunes and prisms initiative sounds sound, as it were. We wish you every success.’
‘And you’re quite, quite sure that this won’t threaten the smooth running of the business? The gentleman seemed …’
Fenn again cut her short. ‘Yes, yes, yes, I dare say. They all blow hard but he’s very small fry, I can assure you. Ring again if there’s anything major to report, obviously. Nice to have had this little chat. They tell me that you are being kept pretty busy so I must let you get on.’ People always said that when they were desperate to get you off the line.
Evelyn replaced the receiver. ‘They tell me’? Who told him? Which of her new acquaintances and colleagues was doubling as the eyes and ears of NYHQ? Any of the professional Englishmen fitted the bill but they might just as easily be working for the other side.
Gregory Fenn put down the phone then took the day book from the shelf but decided against logging the call and put it back. Genista Broome, who had spent the last week at the British Library of Information, was decanting the remains of her desk drawers into a suitcase. She looked at her watch in surprise.
‘Was that the Murdoch woman? Goodness, she’s keen. It must be about seven in the morning over there. I thought she was being recalled? Can’t say I’m surprised. She was always a bit of a fly in the ointment.’
‘She’s pretty much been cut loose now that HP’s got himself installed in Bermuda but we can’t exactly deport her and any change in the status quo is more likely to arouse suspicion than not. I don’t think the Krauts know quite what to make of her actually, so she’s proving quite a handy little red herring from our point of view. I get the impression that she isn’t entirely comfortable being there under false pretences but they’re hardly going to drag Saucy away from steaming open diplomatic bags in Nassau just to give her someone to translate for. Anyway it’s hardly our problem. She’s Kiss’s pigeon really and our man says he’s got her doing a bit of dialogue coaching – eminently qualified by the sound of her. You led me to expect something high-pitched and Home Counties but she has rather a pleasant voice – I’ve always been partial to a nice contralto profundo. Voice coaching should be right up her alley and she might as well stay there out of harm’s way. I know I would. Have you seen this morning’s paper? “London a shambles with death toll soaring”. Far better to stay put.’
‘Does she often telephone? She was given strict instructions not to – I didn’t even give her a number.’
‘Really? Well she found it somewhere: most enterprising. It appears that she’s run across a couple of our old friends from the Los Angeles German legation – presumably thanks to your antics at Grand Central station – and one of them has put the wind up her by mentioning Woking. You know how excitable amateurs get. I told her to take two aspirin and ring me in the morning – or, rather, not ring me in the morning.’
Fenn stumped over to the tea urn while Lady Genista did up the straps on her case.
‘How goes the library?’
‘Absolutely frightful. And freezing. My new colleagues have dragged a desk and six chairs into the stationery cupboard which has the only functioning radiator. It’s pure Marx Brothers. We take it in turns to man the information line back in the office proper, which is something of a lonely furrow, as you can imagine. I had exactly one call last week and that was from Sybil Harper wanting to know how many cigars Churchill smokes a day. Any news on your transfer to Press Liaison?’
‘Gone very quiet,’ admitted Fenn, ‘and the extra-galling thing is that while I was soft-soaping the press-liaison people I took my eye off the ball and missed a very cushy number: Historical Adviser at Miracle Studios. Desmond Colley nabbed it, jammy little tick. Didn’t even read History but he managed to dazzle them with the Great Modern Novel.’
Lady Genista looked blank.
‘Pacifist, wouldn’t you know it,’ spat Gregory, ‘but says he rolled bandages in Spain. He’d been lying low in Lisbon, though I think his eyesight would probably spare him the bother of a tribunal. Arrived on the clipper last week. Used to fag for my brother Miles. Miles says the novel’s frightful muck: Burnt Umber? Name like that. I don’t suppose for a moment anyone at the studio read any of it but there was a suit of armour on the dust jacket and that appears to have done the trick.’
‘Wait a minute … Colley? Isn’t he a communist?’
‘Not practising.’
‘Yes, but he’s written tons of articles: “Crisis of Capitalism”, all that. The Yanks would hate that.’
‘So they would …’ Gregory Fenn drained his teacup. ‘Pass me that telephone.’
Evelyn replaced the receiver and walked dazedly through the main office and across to the kitchenette where she found Miss McAllister pouring a sachet of white powder into a glass. Evelyn’s fingers trembled as she reached for the coffee percolator.
‘I seem to be feeling a trifle off-colour this morning.’
‘Wally’s parties get me that way too,’ said Miss McAllister, who seemed to have suspended hostilities. She held out the now foaming glass.
‘Want some?’
Evelyn took a cup of black coffee back to her de
sk where the morning messenger boy was depositing her post. He had stopped calling her ‘Toots’ since the sign on the door changed to ‘Special Consultant’ but his salute was decidedly satirical.
There was a seven-page memorandum from PZ commending Evelyn’s notes on the War of the Worlds dialogue. On the second sheet he said that Mrs Murdoch should work on Rindy McGee’s accent as originally planned: ‘this will be a skill worth having whatever transpires vis-à-vis War of the Worlds’. Mr Kiss was copied on the memo and Evelyn wondered how he would feel about ‘whatever transpires’ (hardly a vote of confidence). Pages three and four contained a detailed analysis of the costume designs that had been submitted by the art department (‘The big sister teaches school. You have made her look like a Gibson girl. Lose the S-bend corset’).
The only other post was a typewritten card ‘from the desk of Della Cavendish’, which had fallen out of the same envelope, informing her that Miss McGee would be expecting her at eleven sharp. It was already half past ten.
Rindy McGee was waiting for her on a bench by the canoe run.
Evelyn had not been looking forward to voice coaching (accents were never her forte) and she decided to follow the scheme outlined in her second-hand textbook. Rindy had heard it all before.
‘Which witch is which? That thing where you blow the candle? I did that already.’
‘It’s your vowels I’m concerned about. You tend to over-egg things. Nobody really talks like Mr Frobisher, you know. Little girls especially.’
Evelyn opened the revised War of the Worlds script at one of the passages she had marked.
‘Keep the sound short and crisp. “Dog” not “dahg”. Keep your mouth as small as possible: “the rotten dog has got to stop”.’
The child had a quick ear but she bored easily and was soon trying to change the subject.
‘Von Blick is a pal of yours, isn’t he? Must be if he let you on the set for those retakes. That was me in the yellow wig, by the way: Guinevere’s page. I don’t get a credit but PZ told me it would be good for my education to see Von Blick in action. Malo was furious when they let you in – she always insists on a closed set – and then Von Blick made that crack about you being ready for your close-up. She hates it when anyone else gets any attention. Especially if they’re easy on the eye.’
Rindy looked Evelyn up and down. ‘That grey suit made you look like something out of a social-problem picture. You look almost human today.’
Evelyn still didn’t feel it. She managed to struggle through an hour of vocal exercises before driving back to the studio where she met Miss McAllister just coming out of Writers’ Block. There was a cameraman on a crane by the entrance to the ‘slum’ side of the building.
‘The second unit are filming a gunfight,’ said Miss McAllister, who had a bale of scripts under one arm. ‘My head won’t stand it – even my apartment is quieter than this. I should get out while you can. They’re on a break but you won’t be allowed out once they start up again.’
Evelyn darted upstairs to retrieve the afternoon post then drove back to Bel Air where she took a lunch tray out on to the terrace. Mr Hashimoto was dead-heading the hibiscus bushes. He looked sideways at her as she bit into an apple.
‘Mrs like flute?’
She said that yes she did and he offered to get her some wholesale from his brother who had a smallholding out in Gardena.
‘My Jane like flute,’ he confided. ‘Every day make juice.’
He reached inside his overalls and produced a photograph protected by a little celluloid wallet. A large, smiling woman with tightly curled yellow hair.
‘Very pretty,’ he insisted – odd the way his Rs and Ls came and went.
‘Very,’ lied Evelyn. ‘Is Mrs Hashimoto a gardener too?’
Mr Hashimoto gave a short bark of laughter and shook his head as he explained that no, Mrs Hashimoto was not a gardener and nor was she Mrs Hashimoto. They had been living together down in Gardena for eighteen years and she was the mother of his two grown-up children, but Jane remained his con-cu-bine. He pronounced the word very deliberately, like Rindy doing dialect. He wanted to marry her but the law didn’t allow it, he said, not in California. Michigan, yes, but no Mrs Silverman to work for in Michigan.
He slid the photograph back into his wallet and pulled his secateurs from the pocket of his overalls.
‘Garden he much better now, yes? Tell boss all shipshape?’
Evelyn’s afternoon post contained the usual pile of scripts from Miss Cavendish, a Saturday-night dinner invitation from Mamie Silverman, a pasteboard folder full of photographs and a letter from home.
Deborah began by apologising for writing again so soon but she felt that Evelyn ought to know that mysterious pink cards had been pinned up in the window of the paper shop and on the noticeboard of the public library offering lessons in Elocution and Stage Diction by a Mrs Silas Murdoch who was apparently a fully accredited examiner for the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. None of Deborah’s business, obviously, but couldn’t that be classed as fraud?
Gregory Fenn had been quite right; the ‘firm’ had taken considerable pains, the masterstroke being the supply and fitting of a brass plaque by the front door of the Murdoch home with Evelyn’s name and bogus credentials engraved upon it. This elaborate forgery (complete with verdigris) had been installed in the teeth of vigorous and vocal protests from Evelyn’s mother-in-law.
Lord knows what would have happened if I hadn’t been there [wrote Deborah]. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she could have remembered who you are – ‘Evelyn? Evelyn who? Sending men to drill holes in my porch!’ – all that. She got quite shirty with the man but I don’t think her teeth actually broke the skin. You’ve got to be so careful with tradesmen. She shut the man from the gas board in the cellar on Friday. Made a pass at her, apparently (as they all do).
Fortunately the telephone number on the pink cards they’ve pinned up doesn’t exist – you know what she’s like when the phone goes. She can get quite abusive with callers even when she does know who it is – especially if they call on the Sabbath. I started off putting the phone out in the front passage as far as the cord will stretch because it takes her a minute to rouse herself out of her chair, but she has been known to get there in time if they let it ring so I now keep it under a cushion inside the seat of the hall stand when I go out and so far she seems to have slept through. That’s if anyone ever rings up in the daytime – it wouldn’t be good news if they did.
One of the church visitors left her a newspaper and all of a sudden she’s riddled with remorse about Woking not being bombed yet but my suggestion that we salve her conscience by moving to Liverpool fell on deaf ears – do you think she has flaps on them like hippopotamuses? Or is that nostrils? Then we had a prayer of thanks for being spared and God bless and keep poor dear Gilbert and not a peep from her about not getting any letters from poor dear Silas so we may be over the worst.
There was a freshening wind blowing across the canyon and Evelyn piled her post on to the tea tray and took the lot back inside. A dead robin was lying on the doorstep, flatter in death like a pressed flower. There was no sign of its killer. The Bengal was proving a very hard cat to love. The fur clung tightly to its lean, wiry body with only the skimpiest dewlap, and while it would just about tolerate stroking, its proud head and silky striped flank always pulled away from the caress. Poor Kowtow had been a very affectionate animal. Evelyn thought again of him dying alone and uncuddled on the vet’s enamel table.
She changed into her flannelette nightdress and curled up in an armchair to finish her letter.
Thank you for your lovely funny card. Looks a bit like Torquay, what with all the palm trees. Is it winter there yet? It jolly well is here and she’s already insisting on a fire in the parlour all day long which I bank up when I come home to give her her lunch.
The side of that concrete coal bunker fell off last week. Mrs F and I shovelled up most of it but we couldn’t budge the fal
len slab so every tin pail in the house is now a coal bucket. Spiders everywhere and an awful wet smell about the place. It’s a lot like living in the coal hole but it may turn out to have been a blessing in a way. The WVS got wind of our spare bedrooms and came round again to evaluate us for evacuees and we haven’t heard back so with any luck we’ve failed the inspection. I’m hoping they’ll realise that I’ve got quite enough on my plate minding the Outlaw without delousing some little Tottenham tearaway in my tea half hour. And they all wet the bed – we hear all about it in the surgery.
You’d have thought they’d send the children further afield than Surrey in any case … One of Dr Ashmole’s new patients, a Mrs Dewsbury, had her three evacuated to Anglesey for the duration. She seems pleased as punch about it being so far off, partly because it’s safer but chiefly because no one expects you to visit them when they’re 300 miles away. Dr Ashmole always puts her down the bottom of the list (‘sick headaches’, oh really) so I get the full story in the waiting room. Two boys and a girl: Dennis, David and Diane (saves on name tapes I suppose). She says she’s not got the nine shillings they’ve told her she’s to pay towards their keep every week but she still manages a wash and set once a fortnight and the Plaza every Friday so a big pinch of salt on all that, don’t you think?
I went up to town on my day off last week to finally try and sort out poor Silas’s life insurance but I hadn’t taken his birth certificate with me – you’d think the death notification would suffice – so it was a wasted journey. I had quite a time finding the office. There was more bombing all round Lombard Street the night before and the men were still clearing paths through the rubble: bricks, furniture, lampshades, biscuit tins. I saw a bedroom slipper with a foot still in it. I thought it was all offices round there.
I was just on my way back to Waterloo when the siren went so I had to run along to the public shelter. We were all squashed up on to the benches when the lights went out. A man came a bit of a cropper down the steps and we all shoved up some more and he sat down next to me. Very pleasant chap. Gave me his newspaper to sit on. I thought it was all going to be another false alarm but it wasn’t. I’d always flattered myself that I’d be all right if I was ever in a real raid but I wasn’t all right at all and I screamed and grabbed the man’s hand and he was terribly nice about it. By this time the other people had all started rolling out barrels – I swear I would pay money never to hear that rotten song again – and he brings them all up short reciting The Charge of the Light Brigade of all things and so someone else piped up with ‘The Lion Ate Our Albert’ and I gave them my Lady of Shalott and the hour fairly flew by. Funny, because when we got outside again I saw that he wasn’t someone I would have talked to in the ordinary way. Well-spoken, no spring chicken, but very well turned out and a nice smell of soap about him. He walked me to the station after the All Clear. Different trains. He lives over at Horsham but sometimes goes to one of the cinemas in Woking if there’s something good on and had I seen Major Barbara?
Happy Little Bluebirds Page 17