They finally got round to getting a photo taken so that his mother could have a look at him and she got very upset when she saw it (what with the beard and everything). ‘Yes but is it Silas?’ I ask. Silas didn’t have a beard, she replies over and over, so no joy there. You can see her point about the beard. I drew one on a picture of Laurence Olivier in the paper and his mother wouldn’t have known him either.
They asked me about distinguishing marks, and did he have a webbed toe or anything, and I said no thank you very much and they’d have to ask his wife or his mother. I did ask Mother when I got back and she said he cut his knee once when he was very small and she had kissed it better and then she started crying. Funny the things she remembers – so I don’t think we’re talking lifelong disfigurement. Was there anything? I was going to send you the snapshot they took but she has squirrelled it away somewhere.
I did show Beardie your photograph – that one at Runnymede – and he got quite excited although that may have been the bathing suit, I suppose (one of the straps is down, if you remember). We drew a blank on the blood group – even if the GP hadn’t been bombed out I don’t suppose he’s seen him since measles and they don’t exactly give you transfusions for that – so I’m pinning my hopes on the MO at the training place he went to who has yet to reply. I will get this off now and write again as and when.
PS. I found a Picture Post on the train home: ‘A Plan for Britain’, they called it: blocks of flats, plate glass all over, swings and roundabouts, injections, bottled orange juice, the New Jerusalem, all that. Post-war? They must know something we don’t.
PPS. He insisted on kissing me goodbye and had a good old rummage if you know what I mean. Ring any bells?
Evelyn tore up half a dozen draft letters before deciding that a cable would be best: ‘Please wire when man’s identity confirmed. Good work. E.’ She drove to the studio and gave the telegraph form to Miss Cavendish before walking over to Writers’ Block.
‘You OK, Toots?’ asked Miss McAllister. ‘You look like you’d seen a ghost.’
And Evelyn burst into tears again. Connie produced coffee and a compact and Felix said he had to dash off to a meeting with PZ but that he’d stand her lunch at the Brown Derby and why not try one of these? There was a dimpled white tablet in his hand and she swallowed it with a mouthful of coffee. I’ve given her a sedative … Only very much not a sedative. She was more than a third of the way through her Sherlock Holmes translation (‘Elemental, mi querido Watson’) when she noticed the time and drove to the restaurant in a sort of high-speed stupor.
Felix was enjoying his second cocktail at a window table, his chair turned around so that he could chat to the ‘crazy Danish broad’ who had made such a mess of Wally Grendon’s soft furnishings, the sticking plaster across her nose imperfectly screened by the flocked black veil on her hat. He sprang to his feet and kissed Evelyn’s hand before pulling out her chair.
‘Did the rose trees arrive? I completely forgot to ask.’
She smiled her surprise.
‘I saw the way you looked at the ones back at the studio so I fixed it with your gardener guy.’
‘I bet Yuki had something to say about that. He’s very territorial.’
‘Who knows? He bowed a lot and said “okama” quite a bit. I guess we could look it up?’
‘Probably best not. They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ He still had hold of her hand. ‘So, how was your meeting?’
‘Good. Pretty good. PZ says he loved the original story but that it was too depressing for a movie and he’s right.’ He let go of her hand and fumbled a cigarette from a new silver case. ‘He’s always right. It’s still the same story – strange guy in a strange town – but we’re changing the soundtrack, upping the tempo. Imagine Lubitsch let loose on Anna Karenina … On second thoughts: don’t. We should order. The grills are good or we could have the Lobster Gumbo. PZ always has the Lobster Gumbo.’
‘Is that really a dish? It sounds like the pen name of a hard-boiled novelist.’
And then she blushed. Perhaps no one was supposed to know about The 29th Bather? But Felix seemed surprisingly relaxed.
‘Just as well I used an alias given the reviews it got. I’m sure Connie will have told you all about it. The Atlantic felt it lacked passion: “like a phallus made of marzipan”.’
Evelyn hiccuped and took a sip of her cocktail.
‘I quite like marzipan.’
It was Felix’s turn to blush.
‘I showed it to Von Blick when it was first published and he said he loved the homosexual angle so I said “What homosexual angle?” and he said “Ze two guys in ze apartment. Ferry interesting.”’ Felix shrugged. ‘Hollywood. I need to wash my hands.’
The restaurant was very full and Evelyn had barely been able to hear Felix over the clatter and chatter but there was also an extraordinary whispering-gallery acoustic created by the building’s hat-shaped dome that made it seem as if distant diners were pouring their secrets into your ear.
‘She has a telegram this morning sent.’
A familiar voice, a familiar German voice. Evelyn took her compact and located the speakers at the bar on the far side of the room: Joseph Weiss and chum.
‘You thought she was just a decoy but it looks as if your pretty little English friend has penetrated your alias,’ said Huber. ‘She sent a telegram asking for your identity to be confirmed and one of the boys overheard her talking about “enemy post” at the Silverman funeral and she and Kiss were talking about Bermuda and she said something about a half-million banknote … It isn’t clear how much she knows but you should head south and lie low for a month or two. Falsifying this new Alien Registration system is a federal offence. Get Guatemala to supply some new papers and you can start afresh. Your flight is from Glendale at seven in the morning. The necessary travel documents will be put in the usual luggage locker tonight.’
Evelyn put her compact away with trembling hands as Felix returned.
‘You’re looking brighter. Another cocktail?’
‘Yes.’ She was careful to speak very quietly. ‘Do you think we might move over there? It’s a bit draughty here by the window.’
If she could hear them, they could presumably hear her. Evelyn kept her back to the bar as she and Felix switched seats but the two Germans left as soon as they had finished their drinks.
‘So. Are you going to tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘What happened this morning?’ He took her hand. ‘I didn’t have you down for the neurotic type.’
‘I’ve had word from home. There’s a man with amnesia in a hospital in Scotland. He had my husband’s Bible in his pocket but nothing’s been confirmed.’
‘Really? What about dog tags? Fingerprints? Blood group?’
‘They’re looking into all that but it’s very difficult. He was thought to have been killed at the River Plate and several of the bodies were quite badly burned so I suppose a mistake could have been made … I doubt anyone will know his blood type. He was never ill. Deborah – his brother’s wife – travelled up to Scotland but she didn’t know Silas particularly well and the man had a beard …’
‘Jeez.’
Felix seemed depressed by Silas’s feeble hold on identity.
‘Surely his own sister-in-law would have recognised him? OK, so the guy had a beard and an accent but Spencer Tracy had a beard and spoka di Portuguese in Captains Courageous but we all still knew it was Spencer Tracy.’
‘Yes, but you were looking at Spencer Tracy for whole scenes at a time. In close-up. Nobody inspects their brothers-in-law that minutely.’
‘Whatever. She’d know. She’s married to his brother, for God’s sake. She’d know.’ He kept tight hold of her hand. ‘It must be tough.’
‘It is. It is, you see, because –’ her lips quivered and she felt silly suddenly, stagey ‘– it is because you see we weren’t … I wasn’t terribly … We hardly knew each other. We’d never …’
And so she told him about Kowtow. She didn’t have a key light on her face this time but she stuck to the same script and it worked the same magic. She had been afraid that he would hate her but the faint look of shock and discomfort turned to one of sympathy. He kissed her fingers.
‘Don’t cry. If he’s dead he’s dead. You grieved already.’
‘And if he’s alive?’
‘So he’s alive. Mazel tov. What’s he going to do? Come and get you? Doesn’t mean you have to go back. Why go back to a set-up that doesn’t make you happy? Life’s way too short. Get a different director.’
She gave a wobbly smile. If Lubitsch or Sturges or George Cukor or Otto Von Blick had had charge of her glum, rumba-less romance with Silas, someone else would have materialised by the sixth reel and given her a happy ending.
‘Or get another soundtrack – or file for divorce – I know a lawyer – I know a couple of lawyers.’ He still had hold of her hand and was buffing her ringless finger with his thumb. ‘Get a divorce. You could get married again. People do it all the time. Marry me.’ He pulled at his ear. ‘Marry me. Fox always said I should settle down. He got engaged, did you hear that? He’s only been gone ten days. The papers are calling it a whirlwind romance. She’s his love interest in The Lead Balloon.’
Evelyn pulled her hand away.
‘Please don’t tease me.’
‘I’m not teasing, Evie. Kiss cut you loose, didn’t he? I heard Della Cavendish talking about it. Marry an American and you can stay, job or no job, Kiss or no Kiss. Think about it. We’d have a nice time.’
Nice.
‘You’d die of shock if I said yes.’
‘Try me. You’re the writer and director on this story, Evie. It can end however you want.’
*
A familiar voice took the New York call.
‘Is that Mr –?’
Jeremy Fitzmorton, HQ’s man in Chicago, cut her off sharply.
‘Such a jolly chinwag in the Maple Room, wasn’t it? What can I do for you?’
‘I thought I should let you know that our, er, competitor is going on a sales trip of some kind.’
She broke off. The silly salesman’s banter didn’t cover all eventualities and if Weiss could intercept telegrams – was Miss Cavendish to blame? – then there was no knowing who might be listening in. In despair she remembered Jeremy Fitzmorton’s six months of Esperanto.
‘Our man’ – nia viro – ‘has falsified his identity on his Alien Registration’ – registrio. ‘I believe he’s planning to fly south tomorrow. He’s to collect some papers’ – paperoj – ‘from left luggage at the airport before breakfast.’
She repeated her message in case Fitzmorton needed to jot it down phonetically and look it all up in a dictionary later but he signed off with a confident ‘Bona laboro’.
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t wangle your transfer. Tricky for you. Hope you get some good news.’
‘I expect I’ll manage.’
The main office was empty except for Desmond Colley who was seated at his typewriting table pecking out a memo to Miss Cavendish itemising his expenses.
‘Are sunglasses chargeable?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘I was wondering – it’s Evelyn, isn’t it? – are you free this evening? I thought you might like to show me the sights?’
Mr Kiss had taken such pains to make Evelyn welcome but it was clear that his chivalry didn’t extend to this spotty young novelist and nor had he sent Miss Cavendish shopping on his behalf – even the old, scruffy Felix would have drawn the line at those hairy tweeds. Evelyn felt slightly sorry for him but life was far too short to spend an evening in his company.
‘I have a script to go through, I’m afraid, and I have plans. Another time?’
When she arrived home she saw a tiny stripy shape outlined on the windowsill. It jumped down and began rubbing against her ankles to make her smell more kitten-like. She fixed herself a tray of tea and went outside to sit by the swimming pool with Happy asleep in her lap and looked sadly across at the empty steamer chair beside her: By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him but I found him not.
The sun was already setting behind her as she drove across to West Hollywood. The mild night air of Hampton Avenue was heavy with heliotrope and late-flowering bergamot. She parked her car on the street outside a picture-book Arts and Crafts bungalow. There was no sign of life within but they had left the lights on and the curtains drawn back so that the interior was on display like a Dutch doll’s house. The front sitting room glowed happy-ever-after and inviting: a Turkey carpet; Tiffany lamps like glacé fruit; a bowl of peaches on the table; a tabby waiting in the window. A canoe like the husk of a gigantic nut was resting comfortably against the side of the verandah behind a pair of slatted easy chairs (no fear of rain, or theft, or of being observed). The garden was a sea of blue agapanthus, and on the pavement out front a mound of yellow day lilies clustered around the trunk of a pepper tree like a starlet’s bouquet.
The cats in the cobbled courtyard were gathered in a shrinking sunbeam and, down a crazy-paved path, someone’s pet rabbit was seated on top of a stone mushroom like a china ornament lit by the light from Ted Monroe’s attic window.
She had the tiniest qualm as she turned into his doorway, thinking of the pilgrim-collared dresses in that orderly closet, but then she thought of his lips on her skin. One of the cats stretched to its feet and followed her into the narrow passageway and raced her up the staircase, nosing open the door at the top.
‘You still hungry?’ chuckled Monroe’s voice as he crouched down to greet his furry friend. ‘Sardines don’t grow on trees, you know.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Well look who the cat dragged in! Great dress! Is there a party I don’t know about? Sit down, have some coffee.’
He shoved a pile of scripts to one side and made space for her at the end of his desk.
‘I’m glad you came because Kiss handed me that on his way to the airport.’ A small cream-coloured envelope was propped against the vodka bottle on the mantelpiece. ‘He thought it might be important so he asked me to stop by your office on my way out but I forgot. Let me finish this and I’ll be right with you.’
Deborah’s note, marked ‘Urgent and Confidential’, was dated two days after her last letter and had been written in obvious haste.
You probably ought to sit down to read this. I wasn’t sitting down when they telephoned and it gave me quite a turn. Anyway, you won’t credit this but no one had thought to look at the man’s teeth. If he’d been found in bits in a bamboo-banded trunk they probably would have but for some reason – pressure of work, who knows – they didn’t bother until he developed an abscess at which point Mrs McMatron thinks ‘funny’ and calls to ask about Silas’s bridgework and we said ‘What bridgework?’ and then she said how well he played the bugle and that put the tin hat on it rather. It seems that our bearded friend was a musician in the Royal Marines band on the Exeter and took a bang on the head when the ship was hit. Lord knows where he got poor Silas’s Bible from. I wish in a way I hadn’t written before we knew for certain because now I will have got your hopes up. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t write to Gilbert about it in the end so he was spared all the worry. The Outlaw is upset, which is natural, but the thought of the beard did bother her. I still don’t know what she did with the photograph.
It wasn’t him. Shuddering with guilty relief, Evelyn thought of all those monochrome movie heroines with tragic telegrams crushed in their French manicured fingers, hair rolled like skeins of pearl-grey wool, black lips pulled into grimaces of pain, chalk-white faces dewy with teardrops ready for their close-up: words delivered piecemeal like a dripping tap: So. He. Won’t. Be. Coming. Back. A hard act to follow. Who should direct? Von Blick? (‘a few feathers, some lights, a little smoke’) or Lubitsch? Could this all still pan out as a romantic comedy? Without direction she was lost and she burst in
to ugly tears of relief.
‘Baby!’ Ted’s warm arms around her. ‘Bad news?’
‘No. Yes. No. Just a bad scare, that’s all.’
‘You need a drink. Then maybe we should go out some place?’
Ted left the room and Evelyn refolded the paper and tore it crossways into sixteen pieces and put the pieces in the fireplace. The Bible was still on the mantelshelf among the baseball guides. She teased it out and let it fall open: ‘Thou has turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.’
‘What are you doing?’ Ted had returned. He was wearing a dinner jacket and had a glass in each hand.
‘Asking advice.’
He switched on the radiogram and began knotting his bow tie in time to the dance music.
‘I’m starving. Nito’s? We could rumba?’
‘You read my mind.’
Acknowledgements
These aren’t real movie stars, these parties never happened and these films were never made. There was no Miracle Studios either but the British Security Coordination did briefly send an agent to Hollywood to help the British war effort and he really did have an assistant. That tantalising fact was the inspiration for this work of fiction.
HG Wells sold War of the Worlds to Paramount Pictures in 1926 but, although at least five scripts were kicked around, it wasn’t filmed until 1953.
The US Senate’s Foreign Relations Committee was due to investigate the Anglo-Hungarian film producer Alexander Korda on 12 December 1941 for alleged pro-British propaganda. The Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbour on 7 December meant that the scheduled meeting would never take place.
I should like to thank the staff of the British Library and the curators and docents of the galleries, houses and museums of Los Angeles. A generous grant from the Society of Authors made my research there possible.
My husband, Pete Mulvey, and dear friends Clement Crisp, Helen Garnons-Williams, Susannah Herbert and Kyran Joughin were kind enough to read and comment on early drafts of this book.
Happy Little Bluebirds Page 25