The Englishman’s Boy

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  “Help with a script.”

  “You need help? I’m the one who needs help with a script. Bloody Gibson. You know what he’s got me working on now? Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Another Identical-Twins-Separated-at-Birth Saga. A real doozy,” she proclaims. I can hear the sound of a glass clinking faintly against the telephone receiver as she pauses to take a drink. “It’s based on a novel written by the spinster daughter of an English vicar. What else is new?” She takes a deep breath as preface. “Anyway, diabolical aristocratic parents give birth to identical twins. So as not to complicate inheritance and title, noble parents decide one is a keeper and the reject is set out in swaddling clothes to perish in the forest. Sherwood presumably. Disposable son is found by cretinous peasants who rear Boy Scout in uniform of swineherd – deeply attached to simple life, his hogs, and the Village Virgin whom he hopes some day to deflower within the bounds of holy matrimony. Then, one day, pig boy stumbles upon noble brother slaying deer in the forest. ‘What is this I see, as in a glass darkly?’ exclaims the Dispossessed One, smeared in pig shit presumably, but nonetheless smelling sweet as any rose. You know the rest. Evil brother plots swineherd’s murder. Caretaker of pigs overcomes all odds, gains title. Huge wedding in white in castle.”

  “Who are they thinking of for the swineherd?”

  “Fairbanks.”

  “Village Virgin?”

  “Pickford.”

  “Sounds like a piece of cake.”

  “Yes and no. After writing a hundred of these, mounting self-revulsion can cramp your style. Besides, our glorious story editor has decreed one fundamental change in this anodyne numskullery. He’s ordered me to make Douglas Fairbanks a shepherd rather than a swineherd. According to Jack, sheep are more sympathetic than pigs. It’s a well-known fact. Especially lambs. Everybody loves lambs. He feels the English spinster’s dark vision of life needs tempering with plenty of shots of gambolling, fleecy lambs. I told him, ‘No fucking chance, Jack. It’s got to be hogs or nothing. My artistic integrity is hanging in the balance.’ ”

  “What did Jack say?”

  “He said he’d put somebody else on the project. I said you were the only person innocent and naive enough to write this picture with all the mindless conviction it deserves. Harry Vincent, Little Truth Seeker. But, unfortunately, you aren’t available. You have a higher purpose. Since it falls on my shoulders, drastic action may be called for.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s a new operation for scenarists. They suck out half your brains and then you can write again.”

  “Surgery’s a serious business. Don’t make a decision under the influence of alcohol.”

  “Is that a criticism or a witticism, Harry?”

  “Just a warning.”

  “Oh, fuck warnings.”

  “Maybe I better let you get back to what you were doing.”

  “Harry,” she says, “please come back to work. I miss how your freshly scrubbed and shining brow furrows with serious purpose and concentration each and every time you read another English spinster’s novel for Rachel.”

  “Really? I thought you had Mr. DeShane to provide amusement.”

  There’s a pause on the line which alerts me I’ve made a mistake. “Fuck you, too, Harry,” she says, a slight catch in her voice.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m not seeing him any more. Not since the accident.” She’s trying hard to recover her sprightly air.

  “What accident?”

  “We had a car crash.”

  “God, Rachel, you’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No. Not a scratch.”

  “And DeShane?”

  “Mr. DeShane hit the windshield. His nose got broken. He didn’t take it well. He thinks it was his best feature. He blames me because I was driving. Somebody had to. We were both drunk and I won the toss.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “That’s the trouble with pretty men. They put too much store in their looks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I should know better, shouldn’t I? So much for a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Joy with DeShane only lasted weeks.”

  “Is that the reason for your condition?”

  She avoids answering the question. “You really ought to come back to the office, Harry. You cheer me up. We’re the only ones who prefer Thomas Hardy to Scott Fitzgerald. When you’re living the jazz age why would you want to read about it, too? But nobody else gets my point.”

  “You better get some sleep, Rachel.”

  “Maybe. But you had a reason for calling. Something about help?”

  Now is not the time. “It can wait.”

  “Come on, Harry. Shyness is one of your endearing traits but you can overplay it.”

  Then I recall the book Chance gave me. He even marked passages with a red pen. Georges Sorel’s Réflexions sur la violence. The only problem is I can’t read French.

  “Look,” I say, “Chance gave me a book to read while I work on the script. But my menu French isn’t up to deciphering it. From the number of times the words prolétariat and socialisme crop up in it, I thought it might be up your alley. If I sent it over, do you think you could give me a précis?”

  “I could give it a whirl.”

  “All right, then. Thanks.”

  “Come back to the office, Harry.”

  “Soon,” I tell her.

  I am not entirely satisfied with my photoplay, but I’ve got close, and the deadline for the script is tonight, nine o’clock. Rather dramatic in its precision, but that’s Chance. However, I fear some mistake has been made. The driveway is filled with vehicles parked bumper to bumper and the house is lit up like I’ve never seen it before, brash yellow light streaming from every window on every floor, and the tinny, nasal sound of gramophone jazz trumpeting inside. Lately, Chance’s nerves have been badly frayed. A mix-up over still photographs of prospective shooting locations earned Fitz the dressing-down of his life. I can still see the big Irish moron standing on the carpet, head hanging down like an illustration from a Sunday-school paper – the boy caught pinching nickels from Mother’s handbag. Maybe in the midst of all the planning for the picture, the deadline has slipped Chance’s mind.

  Nothing slips Chance’s mind.

  Feeling uneasy, I decide to ring the bell, hand the envelope to Yukio, and get the hell out of here. However, in a brightly lit window I see three women with cocktail glasses in their hands – Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri. Change of plan, I’ll go around to the back. To dance attendance upon such a big party of celebrities, he’ll have hired caterers. I’ll give the envelope to the kitchen staff and avoid encountering any of his classy guests.

  I begin to fumble my way to the rear, brushing past rosebushes emitting a thick, heady fragrance, hugging the darkness like a housebreaker, dodging the splashes of light on lawn and shrubbery where the shadows of Chance’s guests dart, fishes in a pond. From the house, laughter spills, mingled with mirthless shrieks. Blindly feeling my way among the flower-beds I sneak glances at the lighted windows, catch glimpses of revellers inside. Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, Barbara La Marr.

  Turning the corner of the house, a constellation of Japanese paper lanterns blazing against the night sky surprises me. Yukio teeters on a stepladder while Chance stands on the lawn directing the positioning of lanterns on a cord strung between two palms. An intruder, I instinctively freeze to the spot.

  “Now the red one,” says Chance, “next to the green.”

  In the warm glow of the lanterns, Yukio’s face shines like rubbed brass. Beyond the two men, the swimming pool gleams intensely green in a blanket of soft light, liquid jade. A woman is swimming in the pool, sinuous water rolling smoothly over her shoulders, the surface of the pool undulating faintly behind her as she plies the breast-stroke. Completing a length, she turns without a splash, glides back. Chance pays her absolutely no attention; face raised and forehead lined with atten
tion, he studies the lanterns dangling like coloured concertinas drying on a clothesline.

  I clear my throat and he wheels around, peers hard to where I stand one foot in the shadows, one in the light.

  “Harry!” he exclaims. He comes forward eagerly, pointing to the manila envelope tucked under my arm. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He checks his watch. “Punctual to a fault,” he says, taking the envelope. The girl in the pool begins another lap. The water flows around her thickly like heavy green syrup. A burst of laughter rings out from the house, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Chance ignores it, or doesn’t hear.

  “Let’s go in,” he says.

  “No, really, I don’t want to crash your party.”

  Chance puts a hand on my shoulder. “But the party is for you, too. A little treat for working so hard.”

  “I’d feel out of place among such a distinguished crowd.”

  Chance throws back his head and laughs. “That’s right. Don’t spoil it. I get your meaning.” He steers me to the rear entrance. Over my shoulder I peek at the woman in the water. It is as I thought; she’s stark naked.

  He leads me through the kitchen, past a number of rented waiters in dinner jackets toiling over trays of canapés, and down a passageway which delivers us into one of Chance’s empty, blank rooms. A very odd setting for a party, just a few ladder-backed chairs marooned on a parquet floor. A waiter is serving drinks to two women; a man’s muffled shouting can be heard further back in the house. The two women are Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow.

  “It’s a very small affair,” explains Chance, completely ignoring two of Hollywood’s greatest stars. “By coincidence some of Fitz’s boon companions from New York are in town and I indulged him by inviting them along. Fitz is like a boy with a new train set; he wants to show it off.” He taps the envelope. “I’ll take this up to the study and give it a look. It’s quieter there. Until I need you, consider yourself to have been given the keys to the city. Miss Lillian Gish is dying to meet you.” With that cryptic comment he exits the room. As soon as he leaves, Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow advance on me, heels clicking like castanets on the hardwood. It’s now I become aware that Gloria’s sequinned dress, skeins of pearls, and beauty mark are right, but her chin isn’t. It’s pronounced, but not pronounced enough. Seen up close, Clara Bow, the “It” girl, isn’t It either. The eyes are set too close together and the eyelids don’t droop the way the Jazz Baby’s do in the pictures.

  I laugh with pure relief.

  “Is it a man, or a hyena,” snarls Gloria.

  “Be nice,” cautions Clara.

  “The rest are hyenas, why’d he be any different.” Gloria tips her glass and drains it.

  “So what is this? You girls doubles? Stand-ins?”

  “That’s rich – stand-ins. We don’t do much standing.” Gloria consults her companion. “More like lay-downs, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Lay-downs,” giggles Clara and then covers her mouth coyly with her hand. Some of her teeth are rotten.

  “What is it with this Chance?” asks Gloria, gloomily surveying the barren room. “He run out of money before he got the decorators in?”

  “You’re a card, honey,” says Clara. “A regular card.” She appeals to me. “Isn’t she a card?”

  “How come nobody’s interested in La Swanson?” demands Gloria, sullenly angry. “My stock falling with the movie-going public?” She turns on me. “What about you, sport? You interested in a little movie magic?”

  “Just have another drinkie and relax,” Clara advises.

  Gloria wants nothing to do with relaxation; she’s obviously spoiling for a fight. “Come on, big spender,” she says. “Don’t just stand there. Show us a parlour trick.”

  “What kind of parlour trick?” I ask pleasantly, a feeble ploy to smooth her ruffled feathers.

  “Parlour trick. Parlour trick,” she rasps. “The big palooka in the other room showed us how he could balance three silver dollars on his cock. Be a sport. Go for four.”

  Just then Fitz crashes into the room, dragging a cringing Lillian Gish by the wrist.

  “Speak of the devil!” shouts Gloria. “Here’s Mr. Show-off now!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” says Fitz, “or I’ll fucking shut you up.”

  Gloria looks like she is going to answer him, then thinks better of it. Fitz is sweating, his face puce. “Harry Vincent, guest of honour,” he says introducing me to Lillian Gish. “Treat him right, he earned it, Mr. Chance says.” He shoves the girl at me. “Here’s your fucking treat, Vincent. Suck on this little candy cane, you’re so special.”

  “Hey,” says Gloria, “we seen him first.”

  “I told you to close your cake-hole. Miss Gish is compliments of Mr. Chance. Keep your nose out of it.” The girl is rubbing her wrist. “Miss Gish is Harry’s favourite actress. Mr. Chance remembers stuff like that. Don’t he, Harry?”

  “Apparently.”

  Fitz prods the girl forward with his thumb. “Take the golden boy Vincent upstairs.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go upstairs,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if I was you,” says Fitz.

  The girl snatches at my arm like it’s a life raft and she is drowning; she’s hardly bigger than a child. “Please,” she whispers, “do like he says.” Her plea unmasks a terror so naked, so compelling, it would be cruelty to refuse. She pulls me from the room, fingers biting my forearm; my last glimpse of Fitz he’s clumsily fingering Gloria’s pearls with one hand, a breast with the other.

  Upstairs, the girl drags me into a bedroom and locks the door. Something tells me it is Fitz’s. There’s an unmade bed, a dresser with a bottle of bay rum on top of it, pictures of Gentleman Jim Corbett and Kentucky Derby winner Man o’ War on the wall.

  The girl offers a smile meant to be provocative but isn’t. It’s a grimace – whistling in the dark. “My name is Miss Lillian Gish. How do you do?”

  In some respects it is true. She succeeds as Miss Lillian Gish in a way that the tawdry Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow fall short of their models. The resemblance is astonishing. She has the wrought fragility of the original, the delicate bird-like bones, the cupid mouth, the large eyes, the fine tousled hair which now, with the light of a lamp behind her, blazes like a heaven-sent aura. Unlike the others she isn’t dressed in glamorous party clothes – just the opposite – she’s wearing a paisley shawl and a long dress with a conspicuous patch on the skirt.

  “You girls – just who are you?”

  She smiles shyly, a real Lillian Gish smile this time, and makes a stab at resuming her performance, “My name is Miss Lillian -”

  I interrupt. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  She says, “The greatest gift it is in an innocent, pure girl’s power to give is yours for the asking.” It sounds like a recitation at the Christmas concert.

  I drop down in a chair; she remains standing uncertainly in the middle of the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, she begins to unbutton her dress.

  “Stop,” I say.

  Her hands slowly open the dress front, cup her breasts and hold them on timid display. They are exquisite.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Consternation and confusion struggle in her face. “I’m supposed to do this,” she complains.

  She begins to toy with her nipples; voyeuristically I watch them stiffen. An uneasy, violent lust ripples in me.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “You don’t like that? What would you like me to do?”

  “I want you to answer my questions. Who said you were supposed to do this?”

  She bites her lip, throws a nervous glance to the locked door. “Him.”

  “Fitz? The man who dragged you into the room downstairs?”

  “He came to Mrs. Kirkland’s and hired us all. For the night.”

  “Mrs. Kirkland’s?”

  “You haven’t heard of Mrs. Kirkl
and’s?” She can scarcely believe my ignorance. “It’s the deluxest establishment in the city. Mrs. Kirkland says everybody dreams of making love to a movie star. I thought everybody had heard of Mrs. Kirkland’s.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Very deluxe,” she repeats, still standing. “We have a splendid piano player, you should come just to hear him. He plays all the latest tunes. Daddy would die if he knew – the piano player’s a Negro.”

  “How the hell old are you?”

  My question pleases her. “How old do you think I am?”

  “You look fifteen.”

  “Just like Miss Gish,” she says proudly. “She played a fifteen-year-old girl in Broken Blossoms. That’s where I got the idea for my costume, from Broken Blossoms.” She touches her skirt. “Do you like it?”

  I say nothing. She falls back on the bed in an artless, maladroit pose of abandon. “Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  She sits up, a picture of concern. “Why? Because of your leg? I saw you limping. Does your leg hurt?”

  “Not because of my leg. That was hurt a long time ago.”

  “Poor baby, how did you hurt it?”

  I don’t explain.

  “It wouldn’t hurt if I sat on your knee, would it? Let me sit on your knee.”

  “Please don’t.”

  She is standing over me. With one deft movement she hikes her skirts, straddles one of my thighs. There is nothing to her, it is as if a cat bounded up and settled down on my leg. She throws her arms around my neck. I try to pry her off but her arms tighten, she lowers her face to mine, the tiny lips part slightly. With solemn fervour, she says, “Miss Lillian isn’t wearing underpants tonight.” She slides back and forth against my leg, rubbing like a cat. “That feels nice. Ever so nice.” Large eyes dizzy me. She lifts her hips, takes my hand and slips it between her legs. “When you’re fifteen you’d like somebody to touch it – but that’s wicked. You’d like to show it to somebody – but that’s even wickeder. Shall I show it to you?” she whispers, breath warm on my throat.

  “No,” I say, choking on the lie.

  She nestles her head into the hollow of my neck and shoulder. “Let me take you out,” she says. “Please. I feel so wicked.”