by Nicola Upson
As the road descended, the Piazza disappeared from view behind a high stone wall which seemed to be left over from a kitchen garden. On their right, an old stable block had been colourfully converted into a shop and café. They watched for a few moments as an attractive, dark-haired woman worked on a mural above the arched windows overlooking the courtyard, then drove on to find their accommodation.
Neptune – lots of the buildings had a vaguely nautical name, Marta noticed – was a pretty yellow and white house whose leaded windows and uneven slate roof gave it an exaggerated feeling of age. Situated on the edge of the Piazza, it had good views over the heart of the village and, to the rear, of the wild, overgrown woodland which lay on the other side of the road. The ground floor was given over to garages, and Marta’s temper was not improved by the three attempts it took her to squeeze the Morris into the narrow space allocated to them. ‘The hotel’s just down here,’ Lydia said, snapping her compact shut and putting her lipstick away. ‘Let’s go and find everyone.’
Marta caught her arm. ‘Why are we always surrounded by people?’
‘We’re not. But this is a party, and they do tend to involve groups of people.’
‘I’m not just talking about now. It’s always the same, even at the cottage: we plan a quiet weekend and you turn up with half the cast.’
Lydia shook her off. ‘I’m not the one who laid down the rules on our relationship, Marta,’ she said angrily. ‘Surely I don’t need to remind you of that? Anyway, what’s wrong with having friends? I would have thought you’d had enough of isolation after your little spell at His Majesty’s pleasure.’
Marta could see by the look of horror on Lydia’s face that the remark was regretted as soon as it came out, but she didn’t wait for the apology. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said, hauling a suitcase out of the car. ‘You do as you like.’
6
Alma Reville sat under the loggia roof outside the Watch House, shading her eyes against the glare of sun on white stone and absent-mindedly stroking the dog on her lap. Caught on the cliff between the village and the sea, the building was part of a small enclave clustered around the ornamental Bell Tower and the houses nearby were occupied by Hitch’s guests – actors he was interested in trying out, or trusted colleagues, carefully chosen because of their loyalty or technical skill and vital to the success of every film. The cottage, though small and simply furnished, more than lived up to its name: in front of her, glistening and mirage-like in the heat of the day, the Dwyryd Estuary stretched out to the sea; and below to her right, an uninterrupted view of the hotel and terraces had entertained her since lunchtime with a steady stream of new arrivals.
She heard her husband walk up behind her and waited for the familiar touch of his hand on her shoulder. ‘David chose well,’ he said, smiling as he took in the view. ‘We can keep an eye on everything – from a distance.’
Alma took the crime novel from his other hand and looked at him questioningly. ‘Well? Have you changed your mind?’
‘No. I still think it’s very, very bad.’
‘How much have you actually read, Hitch?’
‘The first fifty pages and the end.’ He sat down heavily next to her‚ and their other dog – an elderly cocker spaniel – idled lazily out from the bedroom and collapsed on his feet. ‘I have no idea what happens in the middle,’ he said, a little defensive against her stare, ‘but the ending’s completely wrong. Not what I’d have chosen at all.’
Alma poured him a glass of orange juice and added a dash of gin, just the way he liked it. ‘But you see it has potential?’
‘Once you’ve finished with it, perhaps.’ He sipped his drink appreciatively and looked at her. ‘Why are you so keen on it?’
‘I like the victim,’ she said, without hesitating. ‘She’s already dead when the book opens and she never says a word, but I know exactly who she is and I understand her completely. That’s quite an achievement, for any writer.’
He looked doubtfully at her. ‘Victims don’t make films, though. Villains make films, and Miss Tey’s villain isn’t very realistic. Fine for a whodunnit, I suppose – they’re only glorified crossword puzzles. But not remotely connected to real life.’
Alma smiled. She had heard the arguments many times before and knew that the qualities she most admired about A Shilling for Candles were the very things that would never make it to the screen: success had placed obvious limitations on her husband’s work, and already there were clear boundaries to what the public would or would not accept as part of a Hitchcock film. But she also knew that her approval would be enough to convince him, regardless of what it was based on; her instincts were good, and they both acknowledged that. ‘You know as well as I do that you’ll decide who the villain is,’ she said affectionately. ‘Just take the good bits and make the rest your own. It’s what you do best.’
She had meant it reassuringly but the comment seemed to have the opposite effect on her husband. ‘What? A bit of romantic interest, the car chase and a gag or two along the way?’ He turned away, avoiding the sun and her concern in the same movement, but the frustration in his voice was more difficult to hide. ‘You’re right, of course. We all know how it goes by now.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ She took his hand and made him look at her again. ‘You know it isn’t. It’s not what goes into the film that matters, it’s the magic you work with it – and no one could predict that. There’s been something new and surprising in every single movie you’ve made.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘All right, except Waltzes from Vienna. And Champagne. And perhaps . . .’
‘Don’t push your luck, Mrs Hitchcock.’ He interrupted her, feigning offence, and she sensed the crisis had passed, for now at least. ‘I need some new blood, Alma,’ he added quietly, ‘and I can’t keep getting it out of the same old stone.’
‘I know you can’t, but you don’t have to. It’s there for you whenever you want it.’
He nodded reluctantly. ‘America will mean a big change, though. A different life for the three of us.’ The dog at his feet stretched and yawned, and he reached down to stroke it. ‘All right, Edward – for the five of us.’
‘I could certainly get used to this weather.’ Alma smiled, hoping that the apprehension didn’t show on her face. Her husband had been deluged with offers from Hollywood since the success of Blackmail – Britain’s first talkie – eight years ago, but he’d always said that he wasn’t ready to move, that there were still things he could do at home; now, he was outgrowing everything the British film industry had to offer and she realised that their move to America was inevitable: the only question was when. She wasn’t worried for herself or even for their daughter – they were a close family, and they could, she thought, adapt to anything as long as they stuck together – but in private she feared for Hitch: making the films he wanted to make would take courage, and she wondered how he would handle the criticism when it came. Outwardly, he relished celebrity and all it brought with it, but Alfred Hitchcock was a very different man in private – sensitive, vulnerable and full of self-doubt. She would never forget his despair when The Lodger was rejected at first by the studios, or the minor failures and nervous moments that had hovered over their marriage as well as their professional relationship, and she wondered how her husband’s famous calm demeanour would cope with the pressures of Hollywood. In truth, any criticism of his work hurt her as much as it did him, but she had to put on a brave front for them both. ‘You’ll know when it’s right,’ she insisted, ‘and in the meantime, you’ve got everything you need in this book to make your most exciting movie yet. Surely you found the young girl interesting?’
‘Of course I did – the girl is the story,’ he said, suddenly more enthusiastic. ‘You really think it will work, don’t you?’ Alma nodded. ‘Then that’s good enough for me. You’ll talk to the Tey woman? Her publisher says she’s a law unto herself and we don’t need her to be difficult about it.’
‘Leave it to me. I
’ll get Marta Fox to introduce us.’ She lowered the terrier gently onto the floor and stood up. ‘Why don’t you have a nap while I take the dogs for a walk? I want to see what the other guests are doing before they realise who I am and start acting.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘We’re not paying them for that yet.’
He walked her over to the steps that led down to the Piazza. ‘Perhaps I will have a lie down,’ he said, and Alma was relieved to see that the twinkle she loved was back in his eyes. ‘I’ll need to be on top form later. It promises to be an interesting couple of days.’
‘What have you got planned, Hitch?’ she asked nervously. ‘Nothing too outrageous, I hope.’
‘Oh, you know me, Alma,’ he said, and then added more seriously‚ ‘Let’s face it – you’re the only person who does.’
7
Branwen Erley took a tray out to the terrace and began to clear away more crockery. She had forgotten how much she hated July, but it was the same every year: Portmeirion bustled into life at Easter, when the excitement of opening and the last-minute preparations for the new season bred a hopeful camaraderie amongst the hotel staff; May and June passed quietly, with a moderate number of guests and no great test of anyone’s patience; but as summer dragged on, the combination of a more intense heat and a sudden influx of people forced a change in everyone’s mood. Staff bickered, guests treated them like dirt, and Branwen grew more frustrated by the day.
She moved from table to table, reaching in and out of people’s conversations, picking up glasses and gossip. They acknowledged her so rarely that she could almost have believed herself to be invisible, and those who noticed her at all saw only a uniform. But she saw them. She saw the lies their lives were built on – the stale marriages, the mismatched affairs, the pretensions to money or youth; had it not been laughable, she would have despised them for it.
‘You wanted to talk to me.’ Absorbed in her own thoughts, Branwen had not noticed that Bella Hutton was behind her, and she tried not to look intimidated. For years, she had longed to speak to the actress; now they were face to face, all her carefully rehearsed questions eluded her and she stood there, tongue-tied and stupid, reading her own inadequacy in the other woman’s face. ‘Well?’ Bella asked impatiently.
Branwen put the tray of glasses down and stared back with what she hoped was defiance. ‘Like I said in my letters, I think you know what happened to my mother,’ she said. ‘Your family owes me. I know it’s not your fault, but you’re the only one here who can make amends and I think it’s the least you can do.’
The actress looked at her thoughtfully, as though trying to gauge her mettle. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, putting a full stop to all Branwen’s hopes.
She turned to go, but Branwen grabbed her arm, making it impossible for her to walk away without causing a scene. ‘I don’t want to make trouble for you, Miss Hutton, but . . .’
She knew instantly that it was the wrong approach. Bella held up her hand. ‘Let me stop you there, young lady,’ she said quietly. ‘You couldn’t make trouble for me even if you wanted to. Better people than you have tried and failed before now, and if you follow in their footsteps you’ll regret it. Do I make myself clear?’ Branwen nodded. ‘Anything I say to you will be of my own choosing, not because you’ve forced me into a corner.’
‘So you will help me?’ There was a pathetic, pleading note in her voice which Branwen despised herself for, but the show of arrogance that she used as a weapon against the pain of her mother’s absence was fragile at the best of times.
‘Come and see me later. I’ll have dinner in my room. Make sure you bring it to me.’
‘I’ll be off shift by then,’ Branwen said desperately. ‘It’s my night with the band – I can’t change it.’
‘I see. Fifteen minutes of glory in front of Alfred Hitchcock is more important?’ Her mocking tone drew attention from some of the nearby guests; the actor who had been insulted in the foyer earlier had come out onto the terrace, Branwen noticed, and was watching her intently. ‘Don’t waste my time. You don’t know how lucky you are that I’m even giving you the chance.’
She started to walk away and Branwen stared after her, sick and tired of being told that she was lucky. It had been the recurring theme of her life for as long as she could remember, established by her gran when she was a child and refashioned at regular intervals since. Lucky to have a job. Lucky to meet interesting people. Lucky to be her. Repeat it often enough and it might even be true. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew what my life was like,’ she called angrily, and the actress turned round in surprise. ‘It’s all right for you – you left here as soon as you had the chance, just like she did. You didn’t have to stay in that bloody town where every day’s the spitting image of the one before it.’ Branwen’s family had lived in Porthmadog for generations, their lives seemingly interchangeable in the same houses, the same front rooms, the same boat. Families wove themselves into the fabric of those narrow streets, and each day was regulated by the sound of boots marching to work like an army to war. The men spent their nights brawling in the local pub, and violence was a third language. As a child, Branwen remembered lying on the makeshift bed downstairs, listening to her grandfather’s footsteps move slowly across the bedroom, tracing their progress as clearly as if she could see the soles of his boots through the ceiling. Her mother had left that life behind at the first opportunity, abandoning a two-year-old daughter in the process; it was a courage for which Branwen both admired and resented her. ‘I don’t blame either of you for getting out,’ she said quietly‚ looking at Bella. ‘And maybe having a mother around wouldn’t have changed things for me. But maybe it would. Maybe if she’d taken me with her, I could have had some of the chances that she must have had.’ She rubbed a hand across her face, determined not to cry. ‘I need to have that conversation with her, now more than ever‚ so if you know where she is, please tell me. Surely that’s not too much to ask?’
Bella stared at her with an odd mixture of pity and respect. ‘I’ll see you later on tonight,’ she said. ‘But somewhere more private than this. As you can see, people are far more interested in our business than in their own.’
‘All right. Where?’
‘I’ll let you know.’ She walked off without another word and Branwen watched her go, scarcely daring to believe what she had been promised.
8
‘They looked lovely when we left Shrewsbury,’ Ronnie insisted, poking a bunch of wilted roses as if she could somehow taunt them back to life.
‘Yes, but that was months ago,’ Lettice said weakly, collapsing into a deckchair. ‘I think I turned forty somewhere around Welshpool.’ She leant forward and took a long drink of Archie’s beer, then looked appealingly at her cousin. ‘I don’t suppose you could rustle me up a gin and tonic, could you?’
Archie looked wearily at Josephine. ‘What did I say about a fragile peace?’
Ronnie cuffed the back of his head. ‘For that, you can get me a very large Pimm’s.’ She pointed scornfully at Josephine’s glass. ‘And she shouldn’t be drinking lemonade at her age. Go and sort us all out.’ She watched him go, and added with a wry smile‚ ‘You two look cosy.’
‘And you look exhausted. Cocktails up to scratch last night?’
Ronnie was the only person Josephine knew who could blush and look more brazen at the same time. ‘Let’s just say that there were several new combinations on the menu which I found very much to my taste,’ she said.
‘And it wasn’t your head they went to, I don’t suppose.’
Ronnie grinned, briefly losing the mask of sophisticated cynicism. ‘So are they as strange as I expect them to be?’ she asked, changing the subject with a modesty that Josephine found unconvincing.
‘Who?’
‘The Hitchcocks, of course. Lettice and I were talking about it on the way down. She thinks he’s a genius, and I’m convinced he’s an overrated voyeur. Which of us is right?’
‘I do
n’t know – we haven’t even seen them yet. But ask Archie – he’s met Hitchcock through work.’
‘You surely don’t mean he’s got a record?’ Lettice sounded horrified, while Ronnie slapped the table triumphantly.
Josephine laughed. ‘No, of course not. It was about some filming on the Thames. He had to get permission.’ She repeated what Archie had told her, embellishing the story to get maximum effect from its punchline.
‘He must have been devastated after going to all that trouble,’ Lettice said seriously. ‘But the film’s still marvellous. That bit where the lodger’s being chased by the crowds is so exciting.’ Josephine agreed. It was several years ago now, but she remembered how the film’s recreation of the Jack the Ripper case in a more contemporary London had shocked her when she first saw it, not because it dealt with a series of brutal killings but because it showed how infectious violence could be. Hitchcock’s depiction of a frenzied mob, driven by fear, revenge and hysteria to take justice into its own hands, was frighteningly credible. It reminded her of the crowds that had gathered in the streets during the early days of the war: there was nothing more terrifying than a pack united by a common hatred, believing itself to be unquestionably in the right and using its fear to justify every innate prejudice. ‘I did feel a bit cheated when it finished, though,’ Lettice admitted. ‘He’s guilty in the book and it’s a much better ending.’