Well, enough of this. Happy Christmas, dear Don, to you and Hannah. I shall think of you, with love, as I always do. Please don’t drink.
Eve
24th September 1984
Dear Don,
Did you see Joe Baxter died? It was on the radio this morning. I burnt the porridge, and then I threw it in the bin and burst into tears. Rose thought I’d gone quite mad: well, she’s probably right. He must have been eighty, if he was a day. Vile, vile, vile man! They interviewed someone from the studio, I can’t remember who it was, an old movie star. She fawned over his memory as if he’d been Mother Teresa, not a lecherous, repressive, dishonest old bastard. The obituary in The Times was no less fawning. I came as close as I ever have to writing to a paper about it; but can you imagine the letter?
Dear Sirs: further to your obituary of Joseph Baxter, I would like to add a few comments of my own. Yes, he was at the studio while Redbeard the Pirate, Dawn Patrol and A Girl Named Rose were made, amongst others, but the writers on those films were due the credit, not he. To my knowledge none of them has ever received the royalties due them nor the recognition. Yes, he spotted talent, but to say he nurtured it so that it could flourish is entirely false, unless you call rape of a minor nurturing, or blackmail, or homophobia, or false imprisonment, or perverting the cause of justice.
He had excellent taste in ties, however. I believe that was him and not his wife or his mistress.
Yours, Eve Sallis
Once known as Eve Noel
Whaddya think? I might send it off later today.
My sister sends her regards. She is knitting a pair of gloves for me. Cherry red, they’re delightful. Perkins came home safely, thank you. He had a dead mouse and was covered in cobwebs, so I suspect he’d trapped himself in a cellar somewhere. So the house is full to bursting again.
Love Eve
August 2nd, 1989
Dearest Eve,
It’s late, almost two in the morning. I’m preparing next semester’s classes and one of the topics the professor professes we teach is Heroes and Villains, and one of the movies on the list is Dare to Win. I’m alone, Hannah’s up at Martha’s Vineyard with some friends. Manhattan is a soup, tourists, heat, sweat. Perhaps it’s the nostalgia, perhaps the night, or the loneliness, but it got me thinking about Gilbert, and you, and I hope you don’t mind me writing you about it, in the dog days of August. He’s almost forgotten now, and it seems so strange that he had any success. He was always seen as the perfect English gent, when he was one of the most unpleasant human beings I’ve ever known. Even before he hurt you. You know the reason he did so well in wartime was he was suited to it – he loved killing, hurting, maiming. I guess we should be glad he was on our side not theirs. I was thinking all this over, perhaps for a class on how you write a hero in a screenplay, and then I realised, it’s all crap anyway, isn’t it? You get stuck with an image and that’s it. The studios make you, and the fans insist you stay that way. But who remembers Gilbert Travers today? No one, except film students and old men.
Makes me think about you, anyway, Rose. The number of people who ask me about you since I started teaching at NYU – well, it’s just terrific. And double that – they love the characters you played, but they loved the person they felt they were seeing. I just wanted you to know that, I’ve never said it before. You may feel alone at times, but I know for a fact people all around the world still thank you for your films, years after. I wonder why no one tries to track you down more often than they do.
So I think about you anyway, you know that. I want you to know what I could never say out loud but I can write very easily: you were the love of my life. You still are. You always say you’ve changed, that I wouldn’t love you anymore, that we have our own lives, and I can see that. I’m not intending on acting on it. It’s just sometimes the desire to see you again, hold you in my arms, kiss your soft creamy cheek, it overwhelms me and I have to stop myself running right to the airport. You’re Rose, you always will be to me, and I love you, and I’m sorry for this letter: It’s not a confessional, just something to reread occasionally, if you need reminding that you are, and always will be, loved.
Don
15th August 1989
Don,
Gilbert was a brute, you’re right. But he was a sad, angry man. It’s best illustrated by the fact he would never agree to a divorce. He was of that generation of British men who can’t admit failure. Though he died a long, lingering death, incredibly painful, and he was all alone. I think there was no one there at the end and he hated being alone. The trouble was, fame was everything to him. He loved it, it became the driving force in his life. I think that’s why he married me and why he couldn’t see anything was wrong.
Darling Don. I have reread your letter so many times. I keep it with me. Writing to you every week has come to be the moulding into which I fill the rest of my life here with my sister. Such as it is. If I see or hear anything particularly interesting or noteworthy, I think ‘I’ll tell Don,’ not, ‘I’ll tell Rose.’ I’m happiest when I’m writing to you. My brain works, my thoughts flow. I know what I want to say to you and how. I know you’ll understand me. Often I can’t work out what to say, to Rose, to the chemist, to the dentist. I get confused still, but never with you.
I wrote you a lot of letters, when I was first here, in the early days when everything was at its worst. I didn’t send them. I was less sure of who I was and rereading them is painful. And even though my sister is my life here now, you saved me, Don, darling Don. It may be decades now, but you are still with me, in everything I do. I wake up in the morning and the day ahead is full of things I want to tell you. I feel you’re with me, all through the day. I think about you all the time, worry that you’re eating enough, hope you’re not drinking, laugh at the jokes we’ve shared, wonder what you make of some story on the news. It’s like you’re here, with me, and I love you too.
Eve
October 4th, 1996
Dearest Eve,
Am I right in thinking today is your 60th birthday?
Many, many happy returns. The fax is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? I hope you have a great day, and that Hudson makes you a beautiful cake, or at least a mousy tribute.
All my love, Don
PS The news is brief here, yes. Classes have started. Hannah and I reached a settlement and I hope the final papers will be signed soon. She wants to be married to her new guy before Christmas, and I’d like to be able to help her do it. I think he’s right for her. He works at NBC. That’s more than I could give her …
2nd January 2000
Happy New Year, new century, new millennium, dear Don. May it bring you everything you want.
They showed Too Many Stars on BBC2 last night, or rather this morning. What a great film. We enjoyed it so much. It’s still my favourite of yours, apart from Rose, of course.
Rose went out today for a cup of tea with a lady from the church whom she has met several times in the village. By herself. She said it was a new millennium and time for a new start. I was very against it, but she pointed out that I have you, I can fax you as much as I want and I often do, and she has no one. But it makes me so nervous, this idea of her engaging with someone else. I know why, and I wish I could stop myself. The truth is, we’re more different than I’d realised. I’ve become used to this life. I know its parameters and it makes me feel safe. I don’t think I’m strong enough to try something new. Rose is the opposite. She likes our life together, but she wants more. I can’t blame her at all, but it makes me so nervous. The thought of it … that I might lose her again. Irrational I know.
You always ask how it is no one wants to track me down, the old, film star me, I mean. The answer is simple – if you don’t draw attention to it, most people simply aren’t interested. People don’t notice old ladies and Don, I’m afraid to tell you that’s what I am, these days. In the village, we’re Rose Sallis, if we’re anything. We’re the old witch that lives in the overgrown house at
the top of the hill and rarely goes into town. That’s quite enough for them. I don’t need to alarm them by telling them I know Professor Donald Matthews of the NYU Film School, who has a retrospective coming up in the spring, and who is the cleverest, and best of men. I’m no show-off.
Love Eve
March 28th, 2000
Dear E,
Well, the opening was a bust. The guy introducing me called me ‘Den’, not ‘Don’, there were rows of empty seats, and then they loaded the wrong film and we got five minutes of The Godfather before someone changed it back to my second film, Mr Taylor’s Test. The trouble is, five minutes is enough to remind you how great The Godfather is. No one wanted to switch over to Taylor – they, like I, wanted to stick with Brando in the study and the guests dancing in the garden to Johnny Fontane.
Frances was with me. She’s my new squeeze. She’s a teacher here too, lives on the Upper West Side. Our first date was a Woody Allen movie. We’re quite the cliché, aren’t we?
I think you’d like her anyway.
Watching A Girl Named Rose for the retrospective made me remember what you were like. Goddammit, Rose, you were so good. Wouldn’t you ever consider stepping back into that world again? Or just out into the world in general? Don’t get mad, but I have to say it. A day trip to London? Would you ever consider meeting me if I came to town?
My love
D
4th April 2000
Professor Don,
You know it’s thirty years ago today you wrote to me? April 4th, I never forget it. I’m glad we don’t email – well, I couldn’t even if I wanted to, technology having somewhat passed me by other than the blessed fax. I’m glad. Means I can have a look through a selection of our letters, just between you and me, when I’m feeling down. Just now and then drop a line, as they say.
I think too much time’s past for me to suddenly go back into the world. The London I see on the television is thrilling but too terrifying. As for acting – I’m too old! No one wants a sixty-three-year-old. You ask why no one looks for me – times have moved on so much, who cares about some old film star? And believe me, I’m happier this way. Rose would say different, but my sister is a stubborn old (older) thing.
I think Frances sounds wonderful. And I’d always rather watch Mr Taylor’s Test than The Godfather. Marlon Brando is the most overrated actor in the world, it is a fact, I swear to you. As for the screenplay: pah. You’re the master, you always were.
With love as always,
E
July 2007
Dearest Eve,
I apologise for my handwriting. I can’t see the date, anywhere, it’s hugely frustrating. Some days I think my sight is playing tricks on me. What’s the point of the Internet if I can’t tell my best friend what films she should be watching?
But Jan from down the hallway tells me that tomorrow afternoon you have the choice between Kind Hearts and Coronets; or a terrible film starring someone from Cagney and Lacey, and an old James Bond. May I urge you, with all possible force, to watch the former? 3.20 p.m. on something called Channel Five. Do you get that on your cable-free television?
D
6th November 2008
Darling Don,
We stayed up all night watching the television; a first in our house. Congratulations on Obama, that’s wonderful news.
I was sure I saw you last night. They interviewed someone in a coffee shop in New York about the election and there was an extremely distinguished gentleman behind her. Was it you? Do you own a salmon pink jumper? As I write this I’m laughing; no, of course you don’t. But he reminded me of you.
E
June 12th, 2009
Hello dearest,
I’m enjoying my role as your cinematic advisor with a little help from others. Tomorrow’s televisual treat for you is either Genevieve (3 p.m., BBC2), Wife vs Secretary (TCM 2 p.m.) or Last of the Mohicans which is in the evening on Channel 4, along with The Holiday and Shaun of the Dead on ITV2. Am I alone in thinking ITV2 shows The Holiday on a near-constant loop? I cheered when you bought the Free View box, but what is the point when they only appear to show the same four movies in a row.
Have a wonderful day. Can’t wait to hear from you later.
D x
September 3rd, 2010
Hello,
Another residuals check came through today for the 50th anniversary release of A Girl Named Rose; and did you see Moss Fisher died? Ninety years old, knocked down by a tour bus on Sunset Boulevard. Excellent news on the former, and I knew you’d want to know the latter. Can’t help feeling there’s some kind of cosmic retribution implicit there.
Don’t argue with Rose, dear girl. You want different things, but her heart’s in the right place. Same place as yours. She wants you to act again and she’s right. Who cares if you’re older or not? You were Eve Noel! You don’t keep a diamond in storage just because they found it a while ago. You let it out and you let it shine.
Anyway, you know what I think; I’ve told you enough damn times over the years. Oh, by the way that review arrived; thank you. I can’t see it but I’ll get some help to read it.
Love D
Jan 2011
My third fax of the day to you so I’m sorry to waste your paper. I just had to tell you I’m moving a few things around as Rose is complaining there’s no space. One whole room is papers for you. Your letters, letters I wrote you when I was ill and never sent you – oh, so long ago! Things I’ve written down over the years, little chapters of memories to remember what it was like back then, and our faxes. All of them! I reread some of them, a lot about Conrad and Jerry. Poor darling Conrad. Oh, Don. I know what he did was wrong but my God, he paid for it, poor boy. He was good, sweet, kind – until he betrayed you he would never have hurt a fly and I think for years I blamed myself for his death. It was the system, not me. Has anything changed, now? I do hope so. Gosh, it’s painful to remember and sometimes I can’t bear to but it gets easier with time, doesn’t it? How did we – all of us, how did we let ourselves be duped by that system? Do you wonder sometimes what might have been?
E x
Rose, Rose Rose Rose. Red rose. White rose.
I’m sorry, it’s late and I’ve had one or two.
You’re my best friend and I love you. And I miss you, so much. This is ridiculous. I’m saying it now, and you’ll be cross, and I shouldn’t drink I know it I KNOW IT but things aren’t good sometimes, you’ll understand one day. I wish I could explain but I can’t, not like this.
All my love Rose, my real rose.
D
15th July 2012
Don, something strange happened today and I don’t know what to do about it. Rose was out again, shopping in town and meeting her friend. It’s raining here, it has been for weeks, and I was emptying out the water butt again. I heard someone walking up the drive and so I rushed inside and peered through the spyhole in the front door, to see who it was.
There was a girl standing on the doorstep. She was very pretty. I opened the door, more out of curiosity than anything. She looked rather surprised, I suppose I forget my witchy appearance. She said, ‘Hi, I’m Sophie, I came by last week? You remember?’
Which is rubbish because she didn’t. I remember the film people coming to try to persuade me to do the film. I haven’t changed my mind, I’m afraid, Don. And this girl was like the other girl, but not quite the same – oh, I can’t explain it, it’s my bad memory too, and I only know I sound absolutely crackers when I do.
Still I have to try to get it right, so I can write it down. She smiled politely and her eyes opened wide, really wide, and she said, ‘Don’t do the film.’
I said, ‘Why? I thought you were keen. You were the one they said had the idea for it.’
‘No. No. I’m not. I’m not.’ And then she said, ‘It’ll ruin everything if you do it. Please don’t.’
I told her I didn’t understand.
Then her expression changed, rather as though she’d lost the
elastic that was holding her face together. Her mouth drooped. Her eyes took on this awful, hunted quality. She said, ‘She’s supposed to be making a fool of herself. It’s supposed to be a disaster. It’s all wrong.’
I said, ‘Who? Who’s making a fool of herself? Who are you talking about?’
And then she said something that made my blood run cold. She said: ‘My dad started out at the clinic where they took you. You hate white roses, don’t you? My dad was there. He said you used to scream all night that you hated them. I hate them too.’
I don’t know how she knows that. I’m still sure it wasn’t the girl from last week. But I can’t be 100 per cent positive, Don.
She just smiled and said, ‘I’m so sad you’re not doing the film but I think it’s the right decision! Thank you for your time!’
‘Who are you?’ I asked her.
‘I’m Sophie Leigh,’ she said. Then she started to look around her, past my shoulder. I was scared then, because I felt she was close to realising about me and Rose, and I didn’t want her to find out.
Then she flashed her big white teeth – she must have been American with teeth like that you know – and said,
‘Make sure you don’t do that film.’
And she walked down the drive. She was singing to herself.
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