by Lissa Evans
‘So I nursed him,’ said Arthur.
And behind the tobacco smoke was the whiff of feculance and of soaked sheets, and the whole of it was the smell of his father’s utter humiliation. And once in a hundred days he would thank Arthur, and weep with remorse, and on the other ninety-nine he would curse him to bloody hell.
‘I should think you were a very good nurse,’ said Edith. ‘I should think—’
‘A pansy,’ said Arthur, the words bursting out of his mouth, ‘he said I must be a pansy, because only pansies are cooks and nurses, he said that I shouldn’t bother looking for a wife because what I needed was a husband.’ And his father had said other things far worse than that, far, far worse than that, and confession was not the relief it was supposed to be, it was like releasing a cloud of hornets, and Arthur felt stung all over, and heavy-eyed and dreadfully sorry, suddenly, for Edith – smart and wonderfully clever Edith – who had agreed to marry him and who had received nothing in return except a house that was no longer a house, and who surely could have found somebody better, could have found fifty better men who would have married her in a moment, and he reached out a hand and met Edith’s hand, reaching for his, exactly matching, palm to palm, their fingers dovetailing like a well-made joint.
‘You’re a good man,’ said Edith.
He drew her hand towards his face. ‘Almonds,’ he said, wonderingly, ‘you smell of almonds, Edie,’ and one by one he kissed her nails.
*
There was a red-eyed jittery brightness about the film-crew; no one had had more than an hour or two’s sleep, and no one could quite believe that they had arrived at the morning intact, and in the queue for the tea-trolley there was a thread of competing stories, both thrilling and bathetic, of thousand-pounders and parachute bombs, of fires raging unchecked, of a flustered hen spotted in Leicester Square, of ceilings gone, of a privy blown across the garden, of the smoking tail of a Heinkel seen from the bus window.
‘And that’s the last of the milk,’ said the tea-lady, triumphantly, just as Catrin came to the head of the queue. ‘The milkman said a great lump of a building came straight down on the float just as he was passing the Palais, and do you know what the strangest thing of all was?’
‘No,’ said Catrin.
‘Fifteen bottles didn’t get smashed. He said every cat in West London was there in seconds. Next!’
And two of the extras had yet to arrive, and one of the chippies, and the props master who lived in Bethnal Green, and the newly-weds Arthur and Edith, who were never, ever late, and the make-up artist who had already been bombed-out twice. And Catrin, her head ringing from the bitter kick of the tea, picked her way between the doom-laden whispers, and found a corner of Sound Stage 2 to stand in, just beside the screen of the painted sky, and reminded herself that since Buckley never came to the studio unless actually summoned, his absence was entirely to be expected, and not in any way worrying.
All around her, preparations for the day’s shoot were inching towards what passed for a state of readiness. The sparks had slotted the stem of an enormous light into a socket at the top of the scaffolding tower, and the camera had been mounted on what looked like a giant Meccano see-saw, so that it could be raised, together with its operators, to a position high above the water-tank. Extras were lethargically arranging themselves on the deck of the Redoubtable, a kilted actor was miming firing a rifle up at the gantry, and Ambrose Hilliard, who had been standing with his eyes closed while a make-up assistant dusted his face with powder, made a sudden break for the back of the studio, and retched unproductively into an ash-bin behind the painted screen. He straightened up and noticed Catrin looking at him. It took him a moment to place her.
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ she asked.
Welsh, a Welsh female writer; well thank God that no one of any importance had witnessed his shame. ‘I think not,’ he said, with dignity, and managed a steady walk back to the make-up girl, but – oh Christ! – he felt terrible, terrible, his head a snare-drum full of gravel, his stomach a crumpled wash-bag. He wanted to lie prone upon the nearest flat surface; no, he wanted oblivion.
‘Oh, love him,’ said the make-up girl as Cerberus skidded across the floor and plastered himself to Ambrose’s legs. ‘Have oo been getting oo’s face painted? Look at him looking at you, Mr Hilliard! Doesn’t he look just like that dog in the gramophone advertisement?’
Ambrose risked a glance downward; the dog was staring at him with the same expression of melting devotion that he’d maintained since first light this morning.
‘No food,’ said Ambrose, patting his pockets feebly. ‘No food in here,’ but Cerberus continued to gaze up at him, dribbling slightly.
‘You’re awfully pale, Mr Hilliard,’ said the assistant. ‘Let me just get some Number 3 to pick you up a bit.’
And then came a whistle blast, and Kipper’s voice like the clang of an iron triangle, and Ambrose found himself on board the Redoubtable, taking an upward eyeline in the direction of the brightest light in the history of kinematography, and he might as well have rammed a brace of pencils into his eyeballs, it couldn’t have been any more agonizing, and he ventured a suggestion – ‘Wouldn’t Uncle Frank be more concerned with looking down at the engine at this point?’ – which was, of course, ignored, so that by the time a satisfactory take had been secured he was as good as blind, and stumbled twice over Cerberus as they made their way back down to the floor, occasioning several jocular remarks about guide dogs from the extras – and at what point, incidentally, had extras decided that it was in any way appropriate for them to converse with the actors in the cast? In the old days they’d stood aside in a quiet and respectful way. In the old days they’d had to bring their own sandwiches and wait in the back lot during scenes in which they weren’t involved, even if it were raining, even if it were blowing a bloody sideways blizzard, and quite bloody right too.
‘Top shot of the dog barking at the Stuka,’ shouted Kipper – everyone was shouting today – ‘Just the dog in frame. Mr Hilliard, could we have your help, please?’ and back Ambrose had to go again, up the steps, across the little gang-plank to the deck of the Redoubtable and into the cruel yellow light.
‘The director’s shooting down at the cabin roof, and he’d like the dog to bark at a point just to the left of camera,’ said Kipper, gesturing upward. ‘And we need to take sound on this, of course, so could you use a sign rather than a command?’
‘A sign?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of sign would you suggest? The word “woof” written on a piece of card?’
Kipper frowned. ‘Well I thought, perhaps . . .’
‘Cerberus can sit, he can lie down, and with sufficient bribery he can beg, but those are the limits of his thespian ability.’
Kipper nodded unhappily. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, and went off to talk to the director again, and Ambrose leaned against the rail and looked down at the water. Loathsome to think that this afternoon he would actually be immersed in it. The surface was scummy with dust, and he watched the slow drift of a spent match, until it suddenly seemed to him that the water was standing still and the deck of the Redoubtable was moving, and he straightened up hastily and emitted a prolonged whisky-flavoured belch with a strong aftertaste of acid.
Kipper hurried back along the gang-plank. ‘The director wants to know if the dog ever barks. Under normal circumstances.’
‘He barks at other dogs,’ said Ambrose. ‘He barks at horses, he barks at cats, he barks at pigeons – is this helpful? Shall I go on?’
‘Please,’ said Kipper.
‘He barks at doorbells, at fire-engines, at passing motor cars, at small children with toy trumpets, at butchers’-shop windows, at any delay between seeing and actually receiving his food, at women in large hats—’
‘Just a moment,’ said Kipper, disembarking again.
Cerberus, who had been sniffing around the deck, came back and sat heavily on Ambrose’s left foot. Amb
rose closed his eyes against the light, and for a wondrous fraction of a second he was lying on a terrace in Capri, with the Southern sun stroking his upturned face and his limbs suffused with sleepy warmth, and then Kipper’s voice jerked him awake and into the bilious present again.
‘The director’s had an idea,’ said Kipper.
As director’s ideas went, Ambrose had to concede, it wasn’t a bad one. A makeshift fishing rod was constructed, and one of the props boys took it and climbed halfway up the scaffolding tower and dangled a sausage on a string a yard out of Cerberus’s reach, and it really should have worked, it really should have resulted in a prancing, yelping dog who couldn’t help but take an upward eyeline just to the left of the camera. But unfortunately Cerberus ignored the bait and looked instead for Ambrose, scanning the studio floor until he spotted him sitting just beside the tea-trolley, and then moving to the very edge of the cabin roof and whining desolately in his direction, the tip of his tail beating the air.
‘Cut,’ said Kipper, after two useless takes, and went over to talk to the director again and Ambrose looked around to see whether there might be a biscuit within reach, something dry and plain that might help settle his stomach, and instead saw his agent walking towards him. He struggled to his feet.
‘Sophie . . .’
‘Mr Hilliard.’ She offered her hand and then withdrew it almost as soon as his fingers touched hers. ‘Did you forget that I was coming?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘You don’t look very well, Mr Hilliard. Rather pale for a fisherman. Green, almost.’
‘Lack of sleep. Have you been here long?’
‘Five minutes or so. Long enough to observe that Cerberus appears devoted to you.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘My brother would have been delighted. As am I. It’s always pleasing for an agent to see a client extend his range,’ and she smiled fleetingly, the first time that he had ever seen her do so, and it gave her face a rather chilly beauty.
‘Speaking of which . . .’ said Ambrose, ignoring the convolutions of the remark. ‘You mentioned a role that I’ve been offered.’
‘Yes. Although I think perhaps we should wait until luncheon before we discuss it.’
‘But—’
‘This is all fascinating to me, this business of filming. What, for instance, is the role of the little man crouching just beneath the camera?’
Was there a little man crouching just beneath the camera? Ambrose glanced over to check. Yes there was. ‘Sprocket assistant,’ he said, randomly.
‘And what does that job entail?’
He was saved from having to invent an answer by the arrival of Kipper.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Hilliard, but the director has a request.’
‘And what would that be?’
There was a certain reluctance in Kipper’s demeanour. ‘The director wonders whether you might help with the dog’s eye-line . . . if you could perhaps climb a few feet up the tower. Just a few feet, hardly more than halfway. It would be the most tremendous favour and the director would be most terribly grateful . . .’
And as Ambrose was drawing breath for a firm but fair refusal, encompassing a reference to his contract, his dignity and the sinews of his lower back, Sophie spoke.
‘We have not yet met,’ she said to Kipper, inclining her head graciously, ‘but I am Mr Hilliard’s agent. Assuming that my client’s safety will be of primary consideration, I can see no particular problem. Mr Hilliard may be playing an older character-part, but he would prefer to be viewed generally as a leading actor, fully able to cope with the demands of a more active role.’
And thus did he find himself standing nearly six yards above the studio floor (‘Just a little bit further, Mr Hilliard, the eye-line’s not quite there yet’) with his arm muscles still trembling from the climb, and the props boy holding on to his belt, and below him the smirking faces of the crew – oh how they were enjoying this, damn them – and beneath him the edge of the tank, and the cabin roof. And there was Cerberus, gazing straight at him, his tail wagging so vigorously that his whole body was in motion, his paws treadling the roof in a dance of joy.
‘Final checks, please,’ called Kipper. ‘Going for a take. Mr Hilliard, could you hold out your sausage, please?’
And of course there was a neigh of laughter from the rabble on the floor, and Kipper called for quiet, and on the word ‘action’ Ambrose extended the pathetic little rod and lowered the sausage towards Cerberus, and Cerberus leapt and woofed quite gratifyingly, and Kipper called ‘Cut’ and then ‘Print’. There was a scattering of applause, followed by a shout of ‘Three cheers for Mr ’illiard’s nice little saveloy’ and much filthy sniggering.
‘Moving on,’ called Kipper, ‘Scene 303, crane shot, Scotchman firing at Stuka, could we have extras and Scotchman on board? Mr Best, I think you may also be in shot.’
Up in the tower, Ambrose shut his eyes and rested his forehead against one of the cool metal bars. ‘A moment,’ he said to the props boy who was still clutching his belt, ‘just give me a moment.’ Though he suspected he’d need a couple of lifetimes before he could forget the humiliation of the last ten minutes. Nice little saveloy! He opened his eyes again and saw a Scotchman pointing a gun at him.
‘It’s all right, Mr ’illiard,’ said the man cheerfully. ‘I’m just having a tiny wee practice, and in any case, they’re only bl—’
The gun went off with a deafening bang and Ambrose started violently, and one of his feet slipped off the edge, and he lurched forward, and the props boy who was holding on to him lurched forward, and the tower, oh my God, the whole tower began to teeter and in that fraction of a second Ambrose could see the whole sequence, the slow obliquity and then the accelerating descent that would send him plunging on to the cabin roof of the Redoubtable with Cerberus beneath him and the whole weight of the tower above. ‘Studio mourns death of performing dog. Actor dies too.’ And then there was a clang, and the tower stayed at a very slight angle for a second or two before righting itself with a judder.
‘Lucky,’ said the props boy, cheerfully. ‘That big old lamp at the top caught on the gantry, dinnit? You all right there, Mr ’illiard?’ Ambrose realized that he was clinging on to one of the uprights like a monkey on a stick, and it was yet another moment of indignity to add to today’s list, and he was bone-tired, he was sick of the whole damn business, and he wanted someone to sit him down and bring him a cushion and a brandy and a nice slice of cake, and to shoo away the rotten old world for a while. Bastards, the lot of them.
It was halfway through the afternoon when Catrin spotted Buckley. He was standing on the other side of the studio holding a rock-cake in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he caught her eye and raised the rock-cake in casual greeting, and then started to walk around the perimeter towards her. She felt stupidly nervous.
‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.
‘Five minutes. Long enough to marvel yet again at the fact that the best part of a hundred people are getting paid to stand around drinking tea.’
‘The lights are being adjusted, I think.’
Buckley took a bite of cake and grimaced. ‘Rock by name . . .’ he said, thickly. ‘Gather I missed a bit of excitement this morning. Attempted assassination of Uncle Frank.’
‘You missed him being sick behind the set as well. I think he’s hungover.’
‘Where did he find enough booze? I haven’t had a hangover since January 1940.’ He sighed gustily, sending a spray of crumbs down his tie. He looked, thought Catrin, he sounded like his old self.
‘You don’t usually come to studio,’ she said, tentatively.
‘And I don’t usually go to the office on a Sunday, but I did today.’
‘Oh.’ It took her a moment to grasp the significance of the remark.
‘Saw the Scotchman’s line you wrote,’ he said.
‘Any good?’
‘Middling. Did they shoot i
t?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what a “bawbag” is?’
‘No.’
‘Well, let’s hope the censor doesn’t, either. Saw the other piece of dialogue you left as well.’
‘Mmm.’ The breath seemed to leave her. She couldn’t look at him; she couldn’t quite believe that she’d written it. ‘What did you think?’ she asked, staring at her hands.
‘Bit slow.’
‘Really?’
‘And inconclusive. It’s the sort of scene that ends with a slow fade.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Arty. I wasn’t wholly clear about what was going to happen next.’
‘I wasn’t very clear myself,’ she said. She risked a glance at him: brilliantine, moustache, paunch, a currant on his jacket. No oil-painting. But then, she’d had enough of oil-paintings.
‘Little Miss Blush is back, I see,’ he said. ‘So if I can rustle up a fiddler and a plate of whelks one evening soon, will you tell me the ending?’
She laughed, and put the back of her hand to her cheek and felt the unexpected heat of it.
‘All right,’ she said, and then there was a whistle blast and the usual shout for quiet and Buckley rolled his eyes.
‘Off they go,’ he muttered, ‘murdering another one of our scenes. Which one is it?’
‘312. Uncle Frank gets machine-gunned while untangling the propeller.’
Over luncheon, Ambrose had noticed Sophie’s eye upon him – she’d been waiting, no doubt, for him to importune her about the promised role; if so, her wait had been in vain. He had sat in silence, indifferent alike to the food, to the prattle of the cast, to his very future. Misuse and derision had been his lot that morning; he had been dangled like a popinjay before the braying multitude, and the pain that lurked behind his eyes, the biliousness that prevented him from eating more than a single forkful of mock-duck in orange-substitute sauce, seemed to stem more from disgust at the world than from any indiscretion of the evening before. And in the afternoon, when filming recommenced, it was professionalism, solely professionalism, that guided his steps back to the sound-stage rather than to the nearest taxi-cab.