Thus Felix pondered his meticulously arranged wardrobe. A selection of the usual items would be needed: an assortment of stylish shirts, slightly raffish ties, a couple of natty jackets (plus the new smoking one) and a tailored suit or two for evening; and to fit any occasion, a range of footwear, from casual moccasins to highly polished Oxfords. Yes, naturally he would take all the main stuff. Two suitcases should suffice, though a third might be safer …
Well, those were the broad generalities. But what specifically should be worn in a film studio? The last thing he wanted was to commit the faux pas of being overdressed. Still, he was damned if he was going to sport Hawaiian shorts and ‘sloppy Joe’ jumpers as seen in those movie magazines idly scanned at the barber’s. Or, indeed, blue jeans as favoured by the followers of the late American star James Dean. Felix had never worn jeans in his life and he certainly wasn’t going to start now! He frowned, thinking of his own heroes: James Mason, George Sanders and David Niven. What did they wear when not in costume and lounging about in casual mufti? Something comfortable, no doubt, but essentially English and with just the merest nod in the direction of elegance … Ah yes, of course, beige slacks and a silk neck scarf. Ideal! He would go to Jermyn Street the very next day.
With that happy prospect he was about to pour himself a glass of sherry; but before he did so another thought struck him. What about headgear? Being ‘on location’ many of the scenes would be shot in the open air; and thus when not personally on call surely some sort of casual hat might be appropriate – not, of course, one of those Hemingway forage caps (Felix shuddered) no, a jaunty panama was the thing. His present one was beginning to look a trifle worn, a bit bendy in fact; high time for a replacement. Yes, indeed, after Jermyn Street a short stroll to Lock’s was clearly indicated.
The sherry was consumed with much satisfaction.
Meanwhile Cedric, having fewer sartorial choices, was less concerned with the number of suitcases he should take than whether the cottage had an efficient heating system. Admittedly at that time of year one was not expecting icy blasts. But even in London the unseasonal cold day was not unknown; and that east coast wind blew in straight from the Urals! A scarf and gloves might be a wise precaution. He made a mental note to put some in the car.
Of course, assuming the place was decently heated and not dripping with damp, it could indeed be very agreeable. Felix’s report had been glowing – which was just as well, for when his friend had revealed its name, Cot O’Bedlam, he had very nearly refused to go. However, apparently the amenities were entirely in order and offered everything to ensure a reasonable stay: large sitting room, two bedrooms and bathrooms, a hyper-modern kitchen, a conservatory with terrace, plus a small sheltered garden (most reassuring).
Yes, the prospect was not unpleasant; and after all, as Felix had insisted, it would be a way of relaxing after the tedious index business. What a chore that had been! Still, all finished now and he could take his ease and indulge in a little light reading. He must decide what to take to Southwold: a couple of Forsters and some Waugh perhaps, Saki naturally (his vade mecum), splendid Sydney Smith – and oh yes, the chance to reacquaint himself with the stories of WSM, a volume presented by the author himself when they had last visited his villa at Cap Ferrat. He was tempted to take a Simenon – but given the events of their previous visit to Southwold, crime, however cerebral, seemed not quite the thing. It wouldn’t do to strew further hostages in Fortune’s way!
Immersed in thoughts of his reading schedule, Cedric had momentarily overlooked the main point of their prospective visit: the film and Felix’s part in it. Thus selection made, and sipping a cup of lapsang, he sat on the sofa and contemplated.
What on earth was it all about? Felix had been appallingly vague, and apart from stressing that it was ‘terribly experimental’ didn’t even seem to know the title. But then with Barthlomew Hackle in charge any title probably changed from day to day. The young man’s mind was not of the most constant … And why had he chosen Felix for a role? (Luckily not a large one, the strain would have been intolerable!) The dear chap certainly exhibited thespian sensitivity; but as to having actual talent in that direction, Cedric rather doubted – unless of course you counted melodrama a skill. Perhaps it was indeed the photogenic profile, as Felix had coyly hinted. Certainly his profile was very clear, but it was sharp surely rather than ‘chiselled’ or ‘sculptured’; and those thin cheekbones and short spiky hair did not exactly bring to mind Clark Gable. For a moment Cedric harboured an image of Felix with the latter’s moustache … Impossible, he would look like a spiv. He smiled. Personally he found his friend’s face rather endearing; but the profile, clear though it was, was not exactly of the Novello mode … unless perhaps shot in a dim light with brilliantine and black hair dye.
Cedric’s reverie was interrupted by the telephone. It was Angela Fawcett.
‘My dear,’ she announced, ‘I am so sorry, but I am afraid I shall have to forgo your birthday lunch next week – overcome by events, as one might say. Rather exciting, really, and I’ve had to reschedule everything. You see, I shall be going to Southwold to see a film being shot. It’s the Hackle boy – you know, Amy’s current beau – he has a backer at last and is all poised to try his directional skills on the Suffolk coast. Great swathes of swirling clouds and freezing sea, I suppose. Anyway, he is full of enthusiasm and has very sweetly suggested that I go as a sort of encouraging observer … and, well, to be generally useful, I gather. Amy can’t go, so therefore I’ve asked—’
Interrupting the breathless spiel, Cedric replied casually that yes, he had heard about the film and that, as it happened, Felix would be playing a major role in it.
There was a gasp followed by a long pause. ‘Felix? But why? … And did you say a major role? How strange – I shouldn’t have thought that …’
Cedric smiled, and admitted that, actually, as far as he knew the part was very small; and that as to the reason he had no idea, but presumably the Hackle boy knew what he was doing (something which he firmly doubted). He added politely that Amy must be thrilled at the prospect.
‘Oh, indeed she is – but as I said, she won’t be there. Or certainly not to begin with. It’s the new whippet, you see: he is going to make her a lot of money in Shropshire.’
‘Really? Going to be the star turn in some dog show and win rosettes, is he?’
‘Ye-es. That is one way of putting it, I suppose … Anyway, luckily I shan’t be alone as dear Rosy is coming with me. I clinched the deal this afternoon. It’s all arranged!’
Lady Fawcett’s triumph was not especially shared by Cedric. He had nothing against Rosy Gilchrist; but to learn that she was to be with them as in the earlier visit with all its dire vicissitudes, gave him an uneasy flash of déjà vu. ‘How nice,’ he said smoothly, ‘just like old times … So where will you be staying?’
‘At The Swan. I have fixed everything. And then my Amy will join us after’ – she cleared her throat – ‘after Mr Bates has, er, dealt with things …’
‘Will that take long?’ Cedric enquired.
Lady Fawcett indicated that she was not cognisant with such matters, but was sure that Amy would arrive as speedily as possible. ‘She’s awfully fond of young Hackle, you know. Actually I think this might be the one!’
‘And does he think so?’
‘That’s what I aim to find out,’ she replied firmly. ‘Now, mind you keep on the qui vive and let me have your opinion as to his suitability. I trust your judgement, Cedric.’
With such faith ringing in his ears, she rang off.
Cedric lit a cigarette and reflected. Really, was he expected to act as some sort of voyeur or Fifth Columnist in the Fawcett affairs? It was a bit much.
However, irritation was soon dispersed, for the prospect of the forthcoming trip began to take a hold on his imagination. His memories of being stationed in the little town during the war were still sharp, and held a pleasurable nostalgia that the grim events of the previous visit
had failed to eclipse. This time, without the menace of murder to cast a shadow, he could indulge those memories freely and retrace some of the old haunts … Yes, with his books and the cabaret of dear Felix’s film performance to keep him amused, it could indeed prove a most civilised holiday.
He lifted the telephone and dialled his friend’s number. ‘Dear boy,’ he began …
CHAPTER THREE
This time the drive up to Southwold proved smoother than before, Rosy being more familiar with the route, and Lady Fawcett being less prone to gesticulate wildly at grazing ruminants while wrenching the chauffeur’s eye from the road to admire the passing scenery. Evidently the novelty of unchartered territory beyond the metropolis had waned somewhat, and thus the journey was without hazard.
However, after Blythburgh, and approaching the large girls’ school in the vicinity of Reydon, Rosy felt a nervous jolt as memory of the earlier experience became disturbingly real. They had just driven past the narrow turn to the house from which so much of the drama had emanated; and while the house itself had been peaceful, the events surrounding it had been considerably less so … She glanced at her companion. But Lady Fawcett’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere: not of the past but the imminent future, for she had taken out her compact and was busily powdering her nose in readiness for The Swan.
Installed in her bedroom, Rosy unpacked, chose something suitable for the evening, and then spent five minutes at the open window gazing down at the high street.
A little later they were to meet Bartholomew Hackle whom Angela had invited for a drink in the hotel lounge. Rosy had never met the young man, but knew him by reputation and Amy’s garbled reports. From all accounts he was an amiable chap, cheerful and kindly but given to wild enthusiasms not always productive. Well, it was to be hoped that the film project worked – and perhaps, more importantly, that his current interest in Lady Fawcett’s daughter proved one of his more viable ventures! Rosy was quite fond of the younger girl (despite the latter’s noise and unremitting mirth) and, like her mother, felt it would be nice to see her ‘settled’. Much as an exuberant spaniel, Amy Fawcett needed a firm hand and loving playfellow. Would Bartholomew fit the bill? It remained to be seen.
With such thoughts in mind Rosy idly scanned the street below, alert for any changes from their last visit. But all was much as she remembered: charm without contrivance and a general air of quiet busyness. In Market Place the stalls beneath the Victorian lamp post were slowly packing up, women gossiped, dogs scuttled, the sun shone … and the wind blew. Rosy surveyed the string of hectically flapping bunting on the shopfront opposite. Oh yes, some things never altered!
Before turning back to the room she glanced to her right, and halfway down the street saw a couple of men engaged in animated conversation – or at least, one of them was certainly animated: a tall youth astride a bicycle and waving his arms with graphic gusto as if making some vital point. His companion was also distinctive, less by his gestures than by his hat: a smart panama worn at a distinctly jaunty angle. The promenade at Cannes sported many such hats, but here in Southwold it seemed just a trifle too chic. Rosy gazed – and then gasped. Oh lord, it was Felix!
Ah, of course – she had momentarily forgotten. According to Angela, the two friends had rented a cottage somewhere in the town to facilitate Felix’s involvement in this much-vaunted film of Bartholomew’s. Thus one could expect the pair to be ubiquitous … But who was the cyclist? Perhaps one of the film crew; yes, bound to be. She couldn’t imagine Felix chatting to a complete stranger, let alone one attached to a ramshackle bicycle. Oh well, presumably all would be revealed the next day ‘on set’. She smiled, and decided to take a quick bath before joining Angela and her guest for the preprandial drink.
Rosy was right in her recognition of Felix. He and Cedric had arrived at Cot O’Bedlam the previous day, and apart from its excruciating name, were well pleased with their temporary home. As Felix had hoped, it offered all the listed amenities, and Cedric was impressed with the spacious sitting room, large collection of books, small conservatory and its surprisingly comfortable veranda. ‘Film or no film,’ he had observed, ‘this couldn’t be a better place for a well-earned rest.’ Felix had agreed but muttered something about the film being paramount.
To celebrate matters they had dined at The Crown that night. But the following day Felix was eager to sample the pristine kitchen, and that afternoon had wandered into the high street in search of wine and ingredients for ‘une casserole du poisson à la Southwold’. Mission accomplished, and immersed in plans for his special concoction, he had stepped off the kerb unaware of the bicycle bearing down upon him.
‘Christ!’ exclaimed Bartholomew Hackle, ‘that was a near one. You almost had me in the gutter!’
‘Could have rung your bell,’ Felix retorted testily, and adjusted his panama.
They glowered at each other; and then as recognition dawned, simultaneously uttered ‘Ah!’
Mutual apologies were exchanged and hands shaken. Felix, still clueless about the projected film and eager to hear more of his own role, took the opportunity to invite the young man back to the cottage for a cup of tea to ‘discuss logistics’.
Bartholomew deemed this a good idea as he could then outline the shooting schedule and tell Felix about the other members of the cast. ‘You’ll love them,’ he enthused, ‘an absolutely first-rate bunch!’ Felix wondered about that, but nodded compliantly.
Thus with the movie director trundling the bicycle, its basket and panniers freighted with undisclosed ballast, they walked back to the cottage. Here Bartholomew leant the bike against the side of the porch and started to unload its cargo.
Felix was mildly surprised. ‘What’s in there?’ he enquired. ‘Film stuff?’
‘You could say so,’ was the cheerful reply. ‘Vital provisions for the set – Adnams’ Special. The cameramen won’t work without their tipple, and the grips get shirty if we don’t have the right brew.’ He paused and grinned: ‘Come to that, so does the director. But I daren’t leave it on the bike, you’ve no idea how sneaky people can be … at least, they are in London; maybe it’s different here. Still, one doesn’t want to risk it.’ He heaved the bags into the porch, while Felix went inside to alert Cedric.
Settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and munching a garibaldi biscuit, Bartholomew surveyed the room and nodded his appreciation. ‘Hmm, this is a bit of all right, isn’t it,’ he observed. ‘Very cosy. Much better than that barracks of a place we’ve got on the East Cliff! Far more civilised.’
‘But I thought that belonged to your cousin; surely it’s quite habitable?’ Cedric enquired. ‘I should have thought that at that size it must accommodate you all very comfortably.’
‘Oh it accommodates us all right,’ the young man replied, ‘but I don’t think comfort figures very strongly. It’s bleak, barren and draughty, and with some very dodgy plumbing. Shouldn’t wonder if there aren’t rats too; the girls won’t like that. Still, one isn’t there for sybaritic gaiety, we have a job to do: to make The Languid Labyrinth a howling success and to pot bags of money.’ He gave his biscuit a decisive bite, scattering crumbs over Cedric’s neatly folded jacket on the cushion next to him.
Felix craned forward. ‘Oh, is that its title? I had meant to ask you … Er, what does it mean exactly?’
‘Oh no meaning is exact,’ Bartholomew replied airily, ‘and even in its generality there is always the subjective factor, wouldn’t you agree?’
Felix replied uncertainly that he did agree but that surely the word ‘labyrinth’ was likely to hold some special significance.
‘You bet it does,’ Bartholomew exclaimed, ‘it’s what you might call an “existential conundrum”, a conundrum that evolves variously and whose resolution is determined by the skill of the exponent. It’s all to do with inner nuance and the play of shadows.’
‘I see,’ said Felix blankly.
‘But why “languid”?’ Cedric enquired. ‘I mean, if I got lost
in a labyrinth I doubt if I should be in a state of languor … after all, one might encounter the Minotaur.’ He gave a dry laugh.
The other regarded him solemnly. ‘I say, that’s quite a good idea; I hadn’t thought of it like that. We could use the motif of the Minotaur as an underlying metaphor for the helplessness of man’s condition in the face of nihilism and grief. It could be given a—’
‘Fascinating,’ Cedric interrupted hastily. ‘Now, do give us a rundown on your team – quite a mixed group, I imagine. Any established stars among them?’
Bartholomew grinned, his earnestness gone. ‘Not unless you count the dog, Pixie. She belongs to Fred, the chief cameraman, and he won’t go anywhere without her.’
‘Oh yes? Nice little thing is she?’
The other grinned again. ‘You could say that … but presumably you mean the humans.’
Cedric nodded.
‘Well, my great coup is Alicia Gorringe. She was rather well thought of at RADA and won a prize in her final year. Currently she is “resting”, as these actresses put it, but she has had some filming experience and is very photogenic. Except that she’s brunette and not blonde; she’s a sort of Monica Vitti type.’ He paused, and then added thoughtfully, ‘Hips a bit wider perhaps – verging on the voluptuous, you might say. Walking away from the camera she’ll look jolly good, and I know Fred will do her justice. Actually,’ he added, taking another garibaldi, ‘I’m a bit worried that there could be a whiff of tension between her and Tippy Tildred, you know what the girls are like!’
Cedric was vague on the subject, but asked who Tippy Tildred was.
Shot in Southwold Page 2
