by Seb Spence
“Who will be playing the part of the hero?”
“Robert Mitchell – a superb actor. Have you seen any of his films?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Lucy. “Yes, I think so,” she replied.
“Excellent. If you’re chosen for the part, I’m sure you’ll get on famously with Bob; he’s a lot of fun to work with. So, Miss Walker, would you be able to come along next week to audition?”
“Well, yes, I’d like to, but I may have difficulty getting off work. I need to ask Mr. Pickering for time off.”
“We’re auditioning all day Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, so any time on those days would be ok with us, but we’re on a tight schedule: as filming is due to start on Friday, we want to finish the auditions by close of play on Wednesday if possible. So I’m afraid it’s now or never – if you can’t make the auditions, you’ll lose the opportunity.”
Lucy felt she could not let that happen and resolved to get to the auditions whatever Mr. Pickering said.
“No, its ok – I’ll definitely be there,” she replied.
“Good! Of course, you’ll also need to be available when filming starts on Friday, assuming you get the part. I’m afraid the work schedule is going to be fairly gruelling, Lucy. Time is money in this business; we need to get the filming completed within six weeks, so we’ll be working on Saturdays as well as during the week, but you’ll have Sundays off. Is that going to be ok for you?”
Lucy foresaw problems with this: if she started on Friday, it would mean walking out of her job at the bookstore without giving any notice. Although she did not enjoy the job very much, she felt bad about leaving Mr Pickering in the lurch. And then there was the question of her Aunt Irene, who, Lucy knew, would be implacably opposed to her taking up a career in acting. If she were going to be working on Saturdays, she would not be able to keep her new job a secret from her aunt. How was she going to break the news to her? Lucy was intent on making the most of this opportunity, so she decided to cross those bridges when she came to them. She was sure she would be able to figure out something.
“Yes,” she replied to Elliott’s question, “I can certainly be available from Friday onwards.”
“Excellent. I’ll pencil your audition in for a 10am start on Monday morning; it will probably last until late afternoon. If you need to change the time or day, ring my secretary. The address to come to is on the card I gave you. Now, don’t be put off when you arrive and see the building we’re in. Our studios in Croyden were destroyed in a bombing raid about a month ago, so we’ve had to move into temporary premises. The building we’re occupying at the moment is an old warehouse – it doesn’t look very glamorous, but it will do us until we can find somewhere permanent.”
“One last thing, Lucy,” he continued, “as I said when we met, it would be very helpful to us if you didn’t mention this audition to anyone. If word gets out we are filming here with Robert Mitchell, we are likely to get swamped with members of the general public and we just don’t have the facilities to cope with that at these temporary premises. Bob has a huge number of fans and some of them will stop at nothing to get an autograph.”
5.
Thursday, 29th August, 1940: Bramlington, North Kent
Bramlington station was at the southernmost end of the village. The 1.25 from London had just arrived, twenty minutes late due to bomb damage to the track near Swanley Junction. Only two passengers alighted: a man and a woman travelling together, each carrying a large brown suitcase. No one got on the train.
The two travelers emerged from the small station building onto the street that ran through the centre of the village. They stopped to get their bearings, setting down the cases. The man was in his mid-to-late thirties, thin and about 5’10” tall. He had dark hair, carefully combed and slicked down with Brylcreem. The grey raincoat he was wearing was buttoned up to the top, leaving only a white collar and black bow tie visible. His overall appearance was neat but at the same time there was something shabby about him. The black shoes, for example, were polished but well worn.
The woman accompanying him was younger, in her early twenties, and of average height. She had a round, slightly plump face with a sour expression, and short, peroxide-blonde hair that had been permed. She was wearing a brown, checked coat and a small matching hat. The leather suitcases they had with them were scuffed and battered, and showed the scars of many journeys.
The man looked up the street towards the centre of the village. “I guess the hall will be up there near the church,” he said, pointing towards the steeple that was visible in the distance above the roofs of the houses. “It looks to be at the other end of the village, about a mile away.”
“I thought they sent you a map showing where it was,” the woman said peevishly.
“They did, but I seem to have left it at the digs.”
“That’s because you were half-cut last night.”
“I had a few beers after the day’s labours, Ada, that was all,” he said absently, still looking up the street. They picked up their cases and started to walk towards the church.
The village was quiet. The few people who were around eyed the two strangers inquisitively as they walked by. Half way to the church, the pair passed the village pub, ‘The White Hart Inn’, but there were few signs of life in it. The man slackened his pace as he went by its open door and seemed to be considering going in, but then had second thoughts and continued walking along the street.
As they approached the church, they realised that it was standing by itself – there were no other buildings nearby; in particular, there was no sign of a hall.
“This doesn’t look very hopeful,” the woman remarked. They stopped outside the lych gate that lead into the churchyard and set down their cases. “Well, what do we do now?” she said, glaring at him.
The man looked back towards the station and tried to recall the details on the map he had been sent, but nothing came to him. Turning round towards the church, he noticed there was a woman some distance away in the churchyard. She had her back to them and appeared to be looking down at a grave. “Wait here. I’ll see if I can get some directions.”
He entered the gate and walked through the graveyard towards the woman, who continued to stare down before her. He was about ten paces from her when she became aware of his approach and looked around to regard him. She was a young woman – not more than twenty or twenty-one he guessed – with rather tousled dark brown hair cut in a bob. She was wearing a navy blue dress with small white polka dots; it had short sleeves and buttoned up to her neck. As he drew near, he saw that she had rather a pretty face with grey eyes.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he apologised, “I’m looking for the church hall. Do you know where I can find it?”
“There isn’t a church hall, but there is a village hall,” she responded. “It’s about half a mile from here. Did you come from the station?”
“Yes, we arrived on the 1.25.”
“You’ll have to go back along the main street and turn left at the post office. I’m going back that way myself; I can show you where it is if you like.” She was a well-spoken girl and had a pleasant enough manner, though perhaps she was a little reserved, certainly not effusive. He discerned a slight Irish lilt in her voice.
“That’s very good of you, but I don’t want to impose.”
“No, it’s alright – I’ve finished here, and it won’t take me out of my way.”
He looked down at the gravestone she was standing before and read the inscription: “Rose Harrison, 28 September 1884 – 31 July 1937, beloved wife of Rev. Matthew Harrison, formerly vicar of St. Martin’s Church.” He wondered if it was the grave of a relative but did not like to ask.
“It would be very helpful if you did show us,” he said, looking up at her. “We’re in a bit of a hurry – we have an engagement there at 2.30. We need to get to the hall, get changed and set up our props.” They started to walk back towards the gate.
“Props?”
she queried.
“Yes, we’re putting on a show there this afternoon – for some children.”
She looked at him and noticed the black bow tie. “Are you doing the magic show for the evacuee children?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m ‘Professor Prospero’, and over there is my ‘Miranda’,” he said, gesturing towards the woman in the checked coat. “Those are our stage names, of course – in reality I’m Roy Miller and she’s my assistant, Ada.” He looked at the dark-haired girl, hoping she would introduce herself, but she did not oblige.
“I thought the show was to start at 4.30?” she said after a pause.
“I’m pretty sure it was a half-two kick-off,” he replied, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “What makes you think it’s at 4.30?”
“The vicar mentioned it at last Sunday’s service – I’m certain he said 4.30. What’s more, the evacuees are presently away on the downs having a picnic lunch – they left by bus this morning. The bus bringing them back doesn’t arrive until just after four o’clock.”
“That sounds fairly convincing,” he said, and then, after a little thought, recollected the details of the booking. “Blast! You’re right. The 2.30 gig is at Finchley tomorrow – today’s was 4.30, as you say. That means we have a fair bit of time to kill.”
They were by now approaching Ada of the checked coat, who was eyeing the dark-haired girl disapprovingly.
“I’m afraid there has been a slight misunderstanding, Ada,” Miller said. “It seems the show is scheduled to start at 4.30. It looks as if we have a bit of time on our hands.”
“What! You’re joking!” she exclaimed. “We’re supposed to be on the 4.45 back to London. I’ve got a date tonight – I’m meeting him at seven o’clock, and I’ve got to get ready first. There’s no way I can do a show starting at 4.30. You’ll have to cancel it.”
“I can’t do that, Ada; I can’t disappoint the customers.” He lowered his voice to a whisper before adding: “Besides, we can’t afford to cancel it – we need the fee.”
“I’m not breaking my date. I’m going back on the 4.45 as we planned. If you’re going to do the show, you’ll have to do it by yourself.”
“But I can’t do the show on my own. I need you.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Ada, come on. Why don’t you just do the show and turn up a bit late for your friend? Tell him you were held up by an air raid. He’ll understand.”
“A bit late!” she repeated. “I’ll be two bloody hours late. He’ll never wait around that long.”
“Ada––” he started, but was immediately interrupted.
“Look, I’m fed up with all this,” she said in an exasperated tone. “This is the third time in as many weeks that you’ve got the bookings wrong. It’s because you’re bloody pissed half the time.”
The dark-haired girl stood by uneasily, observing this exchange. Miller’s face had started to redden. He was embarrassed by the last remark and also by the fact that this row was taking place in front of a stranger.
“This is the final straw, Roy – I’m quitting.” She put her case on its side, opened it up and began rummaging through the props and costume items it contained. She pulled out a make-up bag and a pair of stockings and stuffed them into her handbag.
Miller looked worried now. “Ada, look, I’m sorry. I’ve messed this up but it won’t happen again, I promise. Come on now, don’t say you’re quitting. Take the rest of the day off. I’ll handle this one as best I can and we’ll meet up for the Finchley gig tomorrow, eh?”
“This is the end, Roy,” she said, glaring at him. “I’m leaving the act. Goodbye.” She turned and walked off towards the station.
“Ada!” he called after her, but then could not think of anything else to say. He just stood, watching her walk away. His eyes watered slightly, and he began to bite his lower lip. He would talk to her, he thought, when he got back to London; try to persuade her to join him again. But he sensed that this was probably the end of their partnership and realised it was his fault it had ended. They’d had several rows like this before, but she’d always come through in the end for the sake of the act. This time, he felt it was different – she had abandoned him. He wondered what would happen to the act now. With these thoughts in his head, he stared after the departing figure for some time, but then he remembered the dark-haired girl. He turned towards her.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he apologised.
“It’s alright. I’m sorry you’ve lost your assistant. Do you still want me to show you to the village hall?”
“Yes, I’ll have to do the turn by myself.” He bent down and closed Ada’s case. Picking up the two suitcases, one in each hand, he prepared to walk back along the road.
“I can take one of those,” the girl said.
“No, its ok, I can manage.”
“No, really, I don’t mind.”
He gave her Ada’s case and they set off in silence back along the main street, following the distant figure in the checked coat.
“It looks like its going to rain,” he commented after a little while, nodding towards the dark grey sky ahead of them.
“Yes, our barometer was falling this morning; it was predicting showers.” After a pause she continued, “Have you been doing this long?”
“Eighteen years now; I started in 1922. I’d always wanted to have my own magic act ever since I saw Harry Houdini on the stage at the Shepherds Bush Empire. 1911 that was; I was ten at the time.”
#
“Well, here we are,” she said, opening the door to the village hall. She led him through the small vestibule into the main hall and set down her case. “The seats seem to have been set up,” she remarked, indicating the two rows of folding chairs that had been arranged in front of the low stage at the end of the hall. “You can just go ahead and start to get your props ready. I think it may be after four o’clock before any of the organisers appear – they’re all away on the picnic. Anyway, it’s been nice meeting you. All the best with your show.” She seemed to be anxious to get away.
“Listen,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t suppose you could do me a favour? Would you be willing to act as my assistant for the afternoon? It would just take up a few hours of your time.”
“Sorry, Mr. Miller. I know nothing about magic tricks, and I’ve never performed in public, not even in amateur dramatics.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ve got two hours before it starts. I could easily teach you enough to get by. And it’s just in front of a couple of dozen kids.
“Sorry, I’ve got other commitments this afternoon.”
“Please. I’ll pay you for your trouble, of course.”
“No, Mr. Miller, I can’t do it. I have to take my father to the doctor’s now.”
He looked despondent. “All my best illusions need an assistant. It’s going to be a pretty dull show if I’m doing it all by myself.”
“As you say, Mr Miller, you’re performing for children. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep them amused. Goodbye and good luck!” She turned and walked out of the hall.
#
After leaving ‘Professor Prospero’, Grace Harrison went straight home. Her father’s appointment with the local G.P. was at 3pm, which gave her just enough time to get him ready and walk him to the surgery, situated at the station end of the village. Crippled prematurely with arthritis, the Reverend John Harrison struggled with even the simplest tasks: putting on a tie, doing up buttons, tying shoelaces were all beyond his capability and he relied on his only child, Grace, to do these things for him.
As she helped him get ready for the visit to the doctor, she told him about her meeting with Roy Miller. Ever the one to lend a helping hand to a person in difficulty, the Reverend Harrison was all for cancelling his appointment so that Grace could go back and assist Miller with his show for the evacuees, but she wouldn’t hear of it and chided him for not taking the state of his health seriously enough.
Fate, however, was on the Reverend’s side, for as they were about to go out through the front door, the phone rang: it was the doctor’s wife calling to say that all appointments for the afternoon had been cancelled. She explained that a few miles outside the village, a downed Messerschmitt had crashed into a hop-picker’s hut full of workers finishing their lunch break, and all the local doctors had been called away to help deal with the carnage.
Such grim news was daily fare nowadays. Hardly a day went by without some tragedy occurring in the locality: if it wasn’t an aircraft falling from the skies, it was a home bombed or a train strafed. The people of the southeast were becoming inured to it. Grace and her father digested the news silently while she helped him off with his jacket and tie and got him comfortably ensconced in the armchair where he spent most of his life now.
“Well,” he said eventually, “I suppose you should get along to the village hall and see what you can do to help your magician friend.”
“I’m sure he’ll manage, father. I think my time would be better spent here.”
“Nonsense! It would do you good to get a break from looking after me, even if it’s only for a few hours. And anyway, think about the children – we don’t want their show to be spoilt. I’ll be fine here by myself for the rest of the afternoon. Go on now!” Grace sensed he was determined to have his way in this and so reluctantly agreed to go back.
Thus it was that half an hour after leaving the village hall, Grace found herself once more standing in the doorway of its main room and looking towards its low stage and the two rows of folding chairs that had been laid out. The solitary figure of Roy Miller was sitting on a chair in the centre of the front row, his back towards her. He had taken off his raincoat and placed the two brown cases on the stage before him. He sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down somewhat dejectedly at the floor in front of him. Lost in his thoughts, he was unaware of her return and did not hear her soft footfall as she walked down the hall towards the stage. As she approached him, she could see he had an opened hip flask in his left hand and in his right a matchbox, which he was absently turning over and over with his thumb and first two fingers.