by John Wyndham
Enclosed with the letter was an air-ticket from Dublin to London, and, pinned to it, a handwritten note which said: ‘Worked like a charm so far. Brush up your Yeats. Will meet you London Airport – Bill Robbins.’
A wave of excitement swept through the village, only slightly modified by the general inability to understand what Peggy’s Yeats might be.
‘But, never mind,’ said Eileen, after consideration. ‘’Tis likely ’tis the English way of sayin’ to get a perm. So I’d try that.’
And on Wednesday, sure enough, a car arrived, and Peggy was swept away in it more elegantly than any previous emigrant had ever left Barranacleugh.
In the London airport arrival-hall there was Mr Robbins, waving a hand in greeting, and making his way through the crowd to greet her.
Somebody let off a quite alarming flash, and then Peggy found herself being introduced to a large, comfortable-looking lady in a black suit and a silver fox fur.
‘Mrs Trump,’ explained Mr Robbins. ‘Mrs Trump’s function is to guide you, advise you, look after you generally, and fight off the wolves.’
‘Wolves?’ said Peggy, startled.
‘Wolves,’ he assured her, ‘the place is crawling with ’em.’
She suddenly understood.
‘Oh, I see. You mean the American kind that whistle?’ she asked.
‘Well, that’s how they start. Though they come under all flags, I assure you.’
Then she, and Mr Robbins, and Mrs Trump, and an unhappy-looking man with a camera who was just known as Bert, all got into a big car, and were driven off.
‘Our people fell for it in quite a big way,’ Mr Robbins told Peggy. ‘In about a couple of hours’ time you meet the Press. Day after tomorrow I’ve fixed up for you to see George Floyd. But not a word about him to the Press boys and girls. Watch that. It wouldn’t do to look as if we were trying to force his hand. And there’s a one-minute spot for you on our programme tomorrow night.
‘Just now, however, we’ve got to think up something to tell the Press about you. What about your family, for instance? Have they played any important part in history? Soldiers? Sailors? Explorers?’
Peggy thought.
‘Well, there was me great-great-grandfather. He went to Someone’s land. Would that be exploring, now?’
‘Not in the usual sense. And some time ago, too. Something more recent?’
Peggy reconsidered.
‘There was some of me mother’s brothers that were grand at burnin’ the English houses,’ she suggested.
‘Not quite the angle, perhaps. Try again,’ urged Mr Robbins.
‘I don’t know – oh, there was my Uncle Sean, of course. He was quite famous.’
‘What did he do? Blow things up?’ inquired Bert hopefully.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. But he got himself shot in the end by another very famous man called Al Capone,’ Peggy said.
The Consort Hotel, when they reached it, turned out to be a proud place indeed, but they went through the foyer with an accomplished flying-wedge to avoid any journalist who might be trying to jump the gun, and were whizzing upwards before Peggy could really take it in.
‘Would this be an elevator, now?’ she inquired with interest.
‘It could be – though if the Americans had run really true to form it would be a Vertical Personnel Distributor. We call it a lift,’ Bert told her.
In a thickly carpeted corridor they paused outside a numbered door, and Mrs Trump spoke for the first time.
‘Now you two. Beat it into the sitting-room. And keep sober,’ she instructed.
‘You’ve got just half an hour, Dulcie. No more,’ Mr Robbins told her.
They entered a luxurious room which was mostly shades of grey-green with gold pickings. A girl in a neat black silk dress was already there, and, laid out on the iridescent eiderdown, were a smart grey suit, a green silk dress, and a long, shining white frock.
‘We’ve got to get cracking, Honor,’ announced Mrs Trump. ‘Turn on that bath. And she’d better wear the green.’
Peggy went to the bed, lifted the green dress, and held it against her.
‘’Tis a darlin’ dress, Mrs Trump, and just right for me. How did you know?’
‘Mr Robbins told us your size and colouring. So we chanced it.’
‘Well, ’tis very clever you all are to be sure. I expect you must have had lots of experience of looking after girls like me.’
‘Well, I was twelve years in the Service,’ Mrs Trump told her, as she struggled out of her jacket and cleared for action.
‘In the W.R.A.C.?’ asked Peggy.
‘No, Holloway,’ said Mrs Trump. ‘Now come along, dearie, we’ve none too much time.’
‘Keep still,’ instructed Bert, and went on crouching, and creeping about the carpet.
‘Modern photographer’s ritual dance,’ explained Mr Robbins.
‘You don’t have to turn to face me,’ said Bert, from his knees. ‘What I’m after is the three-quarter. Hold it like that.’ He shuffled round a bit. ‘Now take the pose.’
Peggy stood rigidly still. Bert lowered his camera, wearily.
‘Be jabers, would they be after not having cameras at all, at all, in Barranacleugh?’ he inquired.
‘They would not,’ Peggy told him.
‘All right. We’ll start from first principles then. Stand where you are. Put your arms behind your back and clasp your hands together. Now look down here at the camera. That’s right. Now press your elbows closer together, and smile. No, better than that: every tooth you’ve got. Never mind if it feels like a ghastly grin to you, the art editor knows best. That’s more like it. Now hold the smile. Keep pressing your elbows together, and take a deep breath, deep as you can. That the best you can do? It looks almost normal – oh well …’
There was a vivid flash. Peggy relaxed.
‘Was that all right?’
‘You’ll be surprised,’ said Bert. ‘We can teach nature a thing or two, we can.’
‘It seems a lot of fadiddle just for a photograph,’ said Peggy.
Bert looked at her.
‘Mavourneen,’ he said, ‘have you seen a photograph lately?’ He reached for a picture-paper and flipped over a page or two. ‘Voilà!’ he said, handing it across.
‘Oh,’ said Peggy. ‘D’you mean it’s like that I’ll be looking?’
‘That is what I mane – mean, damn it – more or less,’ Bert assured her.
Peggy continued to study the picture.
‘Would she be kind of gone wrong now – deformed, do they call it?’ she inquired.
‘This,’ Bert told her severely, ‘is called glamour – or glamor – and any more heresy or sacrilege out of you, young woman, and you’ll find yourself booked for the stake.’
‘What they call in America the hot-squat?’ Peggy suggested.
Mr Robbins intervened.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘there is another qualification for the hot-squat, and that is to keep the Press waiting. Now remember what we agreed in the car. And keep off the drinks. They’re meant to soften them up, not us.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Robbins, relaxing. ‘That’s that. Now we can have a drink. Mrs Trump? Miss MacRafferty?’
‘A small port and lemon, please,’ said Mrs Trump.
‘Er – a highball, with rye,’ said Peggy.
Mr Robbins frowned.
‘Miss MacRafferty, your studies appear to have been extensive, but erratic. You mustn’t mix your territories. I shall not translate. I shall recommend for you the product of our native Mr Pimm.’
When the drinks arrived he sank half his own triple whisky with satisfaction.
‘Pretty good, Bert?’ he remarked.
‘Good enough,’ agreed the photographer, but without enthusiasm. ‘Not bad at all. Yes, you did nicely, Mavourneen. You’re all set.’
Peggy brightened a little.
‘Is that the truth, now? I was thinking most of them – the important ones – were not notici
ng me at all.’
‘Don’t you believe it, my dear. They notice. Though it doesn’t matter much about the men. It’s the sisters you want to watch, particularly if they come at you sweetly – and they didn’t.’ He emptied his glass, and held it out to be refilled. ‘Funny thing about them and girls. There’s a kind of girl that’ll bring all their claws out at fifty yards; another that’ll set them wrinkling their noses at twenty; then there’s a bigger lot that doesn’t register much – just the new crop coming into the old mill; and every now and then there’s one that makes ’em go absent-minded for a moment. “The things that I have seen I now can see no more.” Gives you quite a jolt to realize that even for them there was once a glimpse of the celestial light. Sic transit treviter gloria mundi.’ He sighed.
‘In vino morbida,’ observed Mr Robbins.
‘You mean tristitia,’ suggested Bert.
‘And what the devil would the both of you be talking about at all?’ inquired Peggy.
‘The fleeting moment, my dear,’ Bert told her. He groped beside his chair, and swung up his camera. ‘But fast as it flits I can make at least its shadow stand. I now propose to take one or two real pictures.’
‘Oh dear, I thought all that was over,’ said Peggy.
‘Perhaps soon – but not yet, not quite,’ Bert told her, holding up his meter.
Well, even if English people were a little mad, they had been quite kind and nice to her. So Peggy put down her glass, and stood up. She shook out her skirt, patted her hair, and took up the pose as before.
‘Like that?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ said Bert. ‘Not like that …’
The next day Peggy had her television ‘spot’, wearing the white brocade dress – ‘our recent prizewinner who will soon be winning prizes on the screen too’ – and everyone was very nice and kind about it, and seemed to think it had gone well.
Then the following day there was the interview with Mr Floyd, who turned out to be nice, too, though there was really much more to it than just an interview. She had not expected to have to walk about and sit down and get up and register this and that in front of cameras quite so soon, but Mr Floyd seemed quite pleased and Mr Robbins patted her shoulder as they left, and said: ‘Good girl! I sometimes wish I could look as if I were seeing fairies in W13, but I suppose I’d be misunderstood.’
In a gesture well known to the industry George Floyd ran his fingers through his profuse, greying hair.
‘After those tests, you’ve got to admit she has something,’ he insisted. ‘She’s definitely photogenic, she can move well, she looks fresh. If she doesn’t know much about acting yet, well nor do most of ’em, and at least she’s not picked up any of the regular tricks and gimmicks. She can take direction, she tried; and furthermore she has charm. She could do a pretty job, and I’d like to use her.’
Solly de Kopf removed his cigar.
‘I’ll allow she’s a good looker in her way,’ he admitted, ‘but she ain’t contemporary like the customers expect. She talks kinda funny, too,’ he added.
‘A bit of speech-training’ll take care of that all right. She’s not dumb,’ said George.
‘Maybe. What do you think of her, Al?’ Solly inquired of his henchman.
Al Foster said judicially:
‘She mugs well,’ he admitted. ‘Good height, nice legs. But it’s like you said, Chief, she ain’t contemporary. But her middle number’s okay – around twenty-two, I reckon. That’s the important one, the others fix pretty easy. I’ll say she could do, Chief. Ain’t no Lolo, though.’
‘Hell, why should she be a Lolo?’ George inquired. ‘Imitation Lolos are practically a major Italian export. It’s getting time somebody put up something different, and she could be it.’
‘Different?’ said Solly, suspiciously.
‘Different,’ repeated George, firmly. ‘There’s a time when these things work themselves out. You should know, Solly – remember what happened to Spotlight on My Heart? That was a sure-fire, night-club-star epic – only it happened to be your ninth, and it didn’t fire. It’s time we gave Italian romance a rest for a bit.’
‘But Italy ain’t worked out yet. It’s still big money,’ de Kopf objected. ‘Why, right now Al’s on to a thing called The Stones of Venice we’re aiming to buy just as soon as we can locate a copy and sign up the author. And before that we’ve got a regular blown in the bottle sex number lined up. Seems the Romans – the old Romans, not this present lot – were short on women some way, so they cooked up the idea of inviting all the guys from the next city over to some kind of stag-party, and then while the fun was on they sent out a gang that rounded up all the other guys’ wives, and made off with ’em. Lot of scope there; real genuine historical incident, too. I had that checked, so it’s classical and okay. We’ll have to find a new title, though. It’s shocking what they let ’em get away with in books – just imagine trying to get past with a picture called The Rape of the Sabrinas.’
‘Well,’ conceded George, ‘if you can get it done in time, maybe the sight of a couple of hundred Lolos dashing about in a shrieking panic and the near-nude will give the teen-agers a kick –’
‘Not maybe, George. It’s got history, like The Ten Commandments; and all the rest, too. It’s sure-fire.’
‘You could be right this time, Solly – but if you quarry away at Italy much longer you’re going to have another Spotlight. It’s getting to time for a fresh angle.’
Solly de Kopf pondered heavily.
‘What you say to that, Al?’
‘Could be, Chief. It gets like it looks they’ll take a line for ever until one day – whammo, it’s out,’ Al admitted.
‘And we’re in the cart again,’ added George. ‘Look, Solly, once upon a time we had ’em all, all sizes and ages of ’em, going to the movies twice a week, year in, year out. And now look at the industry.’
‘Yeh. Goddamned television,’ said Solly de Kopf, with weary venom.
‘And what did we do about television? Hell, it’s not all that good. But did we try to save that audience, and keep it in the movie-houses?’
‘We certainly did. Didn’t we give ’em wide screens and super-vision?’
‘What we gave ’em was a few gimmicks, and catch-crop corn, Solly. We concentrated on the green teenagers and the arresteds – and that’s about all the audience we’ve got left, except for a few big pictures. We just let the whole of the huge middle-aged audience go, and didn’t do a thing to save it.’
‘So what? You’re exaggerating, as usual, George, but you’ve got a bit of something.’
‘So this, Solly. There are still middle-aged people in the world, more in fact, than there were, and nobody’s catering for ’em. Everybody’s on the same racket, fighting to fleece the kids: us, the record people, the tin-pan alley boys, the mike-moaners, the espresso-bars, the jazz dives, the picture-papers, and I’d not exclude the Proms: even the telly shovels over a high percentage of adolescent drip. And here’s this whole later age-group with practically nothing being done about it – and this is the age-group that brought the industry millions by sighing and having a nice weep over Smilin’ Through, Rose of Tralee, Lilly of Killarney, Daddy Long Legs, Comin’ Through the Rye, and the like. That’s what’s wanted, Solly. The lump in the throat, a wistful tear, the gentle hand on the heart-strings. Give ’em the right stuff, and they’ll love it. We’ll have ’em back in the movie-houses, sobbing in the aisles. And I think this girl could do it.’
‘Re-makes, huh?’ said Solly, thoughtfully.
‘No,’ said George, ‘not just re-makes. That’s the mistake other guys have paid for. It’s the same age-group we’re after, with the same emotion-factor, but it’s a different generation – so the triggers aren’t the same – not quite. We’ve got to figure out what the modern triggers are – or we’ll just get corn.’
‘Huh,’ said Solly de Kopf again, and non-committally. ‘What do you think, Al?’
‘Could be something in it, Chi
ef,’ admitted Al. He looked at George, keenly. ‘You’re saying to make romance romantic instead of sexy? Well, that’s quite an angle.’
‘Of course it’s an angle. The woman who weeps at weddings is a folk-figure. As I said, we’ll not promote a good modern heartache by doing it just the way they went about it in the twenties, but I’m damned sure that if we tackle it right a revival of Celtic nostalgia could go across big.’
‘H’m. You’ll not set any box-offices on fire with a name like Margaret MacRafferty, will he, Al?’ Solly remarked.
‘That’s so, Chief,’ Al pondered. ‘What about Connie O’Mara?’ he suggested.
‘No,’ said George decidedly, ‘that’s just the thing to avoid. It’s a period name, like Peggy O’Neil, or Gracie Fields, or Kitty O’Shea – too homey. It’s got to have glamour, and a fey touch, too, but you needn’t worry. I’ve fixed that.’
‘How?’ Al inquired.
‘Deirdre Shilsean,’ announced George.
‘Come again?’ said Mr de Kopf.
George wrote it down in large capitals, and pushed it across. Solly de Kopf studied it.
‘I don’t see how that makes “Shilshawn,” do you?’ he inquired of Al who was peering over his shoulder.
‘The Irish do that sort of thing,’ George explained.
‘It’s got class,’ Al admitted, ‘but you can’t get away with it. Not a hope. Look what they did with Diane, and that’s simple – or Marie, for that matter. One decko at this, and she’ll be Dye-dree Shilseen.’
Solly de Kopf, however, continued to regard the name.
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It looks good.’
‘But, Chief –’
‘I know, Al. Ease off. If the customers like to call Diane, Dye-ann, and this one Dye-dree, what the hell! They pay to call ’em what they like, don’t they? But it still looks good.’
‘Well, you’re the chief, Chief. But there’s more to it than a name,’ Al told him.