Red Letter Days

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  “Take her bag, and coat if she’s wearing one,” Hannah ordered. “And don’t be afraid of letting her know you mean business.”

  Hannah had never heard of a woman as an FBI agent—it sounded like the sort of notion J. Edgar Hoover would react to with a comment about his rotting corpse—but even such a woman would be no match for Beryl.

  Beryl ushered in a young woman who followed her respectfully.

  “Miss Wolfson, Miss Adler here to see you,” Beryl said. “Even without an appointment,” she added meaningfully, and Phoebe blushed.

  “Thank you, Beryl, you may close the door,” Hannah said.

  Beryl gestured that Phoebe seemed trustworthy enough and was gone.

  Phoebe thrust out her hand. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Miss Wolfson, really, thank you. I would have been happy just to leave the script but, well, I really wanted to meet you. This is swell of you, thanks.”

  Hannah shook Phoebe’s hand, struggling not to smile. A Lower East Side girl, just like herself. That broad, booming twang was sweeter than a Bach concerto. Hannah herself had always spoken more softly, but she knew her people.

  “Why exactly did you want to meet me, Miss Adler?” Hannah’s voice was cold. It would be easy to feel an instant kinship with this young woman, but these were not the times to trust too readily. “Without an appointment?” she echoed Beryl.

  Phoebe blushed again and took a breath. “I . . . well . . .”

  Hannah saw all the marks of the recent leap into exile. Phoebe’s big eyes behind her glasses were bright and intelligent, but they looked lost. There was that air about her—brazen, determined, hopeful, yet also anxious and at sea, swimming in disbelief. Twists of chestnut hair were winning a battle over the lacquer. She probably did a much better job controlling that hair when she had her bearings.

  “Coffee?” Hannah asked.

  “Oh jeepers, yes please,” Phoebe gushed.

  Hannah liked tea well enough, but kept a little hot plate in her office where a coffeepot warmed all day. She poured a cup for Phoebe, considered offering her a piece of the Walkers shortbread Sidney brought in by the kilo, and then decided to wait until Phoebe confessed to being blacklisted. Newcomers hated admitting it.

  Phoebe slurped greedily and Hannah studied her. A striking young woman, in her way, with a wide face and strong jaw. Freckles. A peasant face, one that could look heather pretty or potato plain depending on what light she’d happened to walk into. If she were an actress, she’d be the stuff of a cameraman’s ulcer. She wore a career woman’s suit—not new, but good quality and in good taste. Money had been spent to have it decently tailored to flatter her plumpish figure, big busted with wide hips. She took another big gulp, and Hannah noted her ringless fingers.

  Phoebe set down her cup and took a breath. “I was told I could be straight with you. Is that true?”

  “It’s preferable, yes. Though you have no reason to believe me, I suppose.”

  “No,” Phoebe said, nodding in agreement. “But I’d like to.” She paused, looking hard at Hannah. “I . . . I’m on the blacklist. I’ve been writing for TV, not a great show, but I’m good. I wrote for radio too. Anyway, I’ve got some scripts—all crime stuff but I can do other things too. I was told you’re a terrific producer and you can throw some bones to blacklisted writers. I know I should have written first, but I’ve never gotten anywhere without being pushy, so . . . well, I hope you’ll look at my stuff.”

  “I might,” Hannah said. She was impressed. The woman had gumption. “Who else do you know in London?”

  “No one. Except Ernie, the fellow who runs the pub I’m staying in. He’s awfully nice.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Adler, half the industry is blacklisted, plus teachers, journalists, union workers—not everyone’s skipped town. Why didn’t you just scrounge underground with the others?”

  Phoebe flushed. “I got a subpoena. I wouldn’t have anything to say to Congress, and then they might cite me for contempt, put me in prison, and I’ve got a . . .” She paused, then threw back her shoulders. “I don’t want to live scrunched up in a corner, being made to feel guilty just because I once spoke up for myself.”

  Hannah poured her more coffee. “What if you can’t get any writing work?”

  Phoebe set her jaw. “I’ll ask Ernie if he can use a scrubwoman. But I’ve got to write. I’m good. All I’m going to do is get better. I’ve always had to push awfully hard. I’m used to it.”

  Hannah had often said much the same thing herself. She decided to read Phoebe’s work. If there was talent there, Hannah would recommend her for something, perhaps on the radio. Woman’s Hour liked a bit of light drama, and the producer liked Hannah. It could be a start.

  “Producers will expect other samples,” Hannah warned. “A spec script for a British show will help you.”

  “Can’t I write something for you?” Phoebe begged. “Just to consider? I’d really like to work for a—for you,” she said quickly.

  She’d been going to say “a woman.” Hannah’s eyes narrowed. Did Phoebe think she was softer, easier, because she was female? Countless men had thought that, and learned just how wrong they were. Hannah kicked off her shoes under her desk and leaned back. She had no intention of considering Phoebe for Robin Hood. Maybe she squeaked through on a low-rent detective drama, but this was a muscular adventure. There was no comparison. Besides, she couldn’t compete with the top-drawer talent the show attracted. Still, women TV writers were a rare breed. A good sample of Robin Hood might get Phoebe far.

  “I’ve got a TV show in production, The Adventures of Robin Hood. I assume you’ve heard of him?”

  “Robs from the rich, gives to the poor?”

  “That’s the one,” Hannah said. “Beryl will give you the specs if you’d like to try writing a sample. Maybe you can have it ready in two or three weeks?”

  “Thank you. That sounds super,” Phoebe said. Hannah saw the furrowed brow—Phoebe must be wondering how long she could manage without income.

  “There are other Americans in London of the, shall we say, ‘subversive persuasion,’” Hannah said. “Some of us are gathering Thursday. You ought to come, meet people. If you need help, we’re there, which is to say here. It’s what we do for each other.”

  Phoebe bit her lip. “I . . . no, that sounds great. I do want to meet people.”

  “But?”

  A long, shuddering sigh. “I really stink at taking charity. I have to find work.”

  Hannah wiggled her toes, thinking hard. It went against her better judgment, but she decided to give it a try. “Listen, the show starts its full production schedule Monday. We need a new script supervisor. You know television scripts and you know something of how this all works. Are you game?”

  Phoebe looked stunned but she sat up straighter. “Yes. Of course.” Then her face clouded. “Though I guess my residency permit doesn’t let me work, not if I’m not writing.”

  “A not-uncommon situation,” Hannah said briskly. “So you won’t mention it when you apply for renewal, and if you’re found out, I never knew your status.” She looked at Phoebe sternly, to be sure they were clear, then went on. “When you get to the set, say even less about yourself. Pay attention to the scripts and details like you’ve got five sets of eyes, and be sharp. I hear of one mistake and you’re sacked, as they say. It’s six pounds a week, which is pretty fair around here.” In fact, Hannah had been planning to pay six pounds, twelve shillings, but she had to make some concession when everyone expected a Briton on the job.

  “Thank you,” breathed Phoebe. “Thanks a lot. Really.”

  “No mistakes. Oh, and listen, Miss Adler, if you don’t mind my saying something personal, don’t dress up for the job, all right? They’re less likely to resent you if you look a little rough around the edges.”

  “Resent . . .” Ph
oebe began, but Hannah had no more time to spare.

  “If you want to wear trousers, no one will mind.”

  “Trousers?” Phoebe’s voice scaled upward, as though Hannah had just suggested she wear a bathing dress.

  “And make sure you don’t call them ‘pants.’ You may think you speak English, but you don’t. I’ll see you at the party on Thursday, Beryl will give you the information. And do start that script.”

  Phoebe seemed to relax. She smiled—a big, toothy grin that was really quite charming. She shook Hannah’s hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Wolfson. I’ll strive to be a credit to you.”

  “Good,” Hannah said, keeping her voice professional. She could determine soon enough if she could be friendly.

  Beryl came in soon after, looking peevish. Hannah suspected she’d listened at the door.

  “Say what you will about that one,” Hannah said. “She’s no delicate flower.”

  “No one will cotton to an American in a staff job,” Beryl said bluntly.

  “It’s just temporary,” Hannah assured her. “She needs help, we need a girl, we’ll replace her once she’s on her feet.”

  “She also said she’s writing one of the scripts,” Beryl said, adjusting her monocle.

  “No, she’s writing a sample,” Hannah corrected her. “If it’s any good, I’ll use it to help her meet some other producers. Just till she’s on her feet,” she repeated.

  Recognition crept across Beryl’s face, magnified under the monocle.

  “Jings,” Beryl whispered. “She’s one of those, isn’t she? On yon blacklist?”

  Hannah reached into her desk and produced a tin of Fortnum & Mason’s best biscuits.

  “Help yourself,” she instructed Beryl.

  “Jings,” Beryl said again. She selected a biscuit with reverence. Like many Britons, she still wasn’t used to treats after years of rationing.

  “Sidney thought we could count on your discretion,” Hannah said. “I’ve had every reason so far to think that’s true.”

  “Beryl Maire Connolly is nobody’s spy,” Beryl said stoutly. “The very notion of that blacklist seems daft, sure, and all right to help along them who need it.”

  “But?”

  Beryl set down the biscuit she’d been nibbling to make it last. “The themes in the plots, the concerns about registered post . . . ? Is it other Americans on that list, writing our scripts? Are you on the blacklist yourself?”

  “I’m not,” Hannah admitted. “But I knew I would be if I’d stayed. And I might yet be, one never knows.” She took a biscuit and gestured for Beryl to finish hers and have another. “I have to help people, and I have to stick it to the men who force Americans like Phoebe Adler, like a lot of my friends, to run away from home.”

  Beryl smiled faintly. This was her language. But Hannah could see she was still upset.

  “Robin Hood is our legend,” Beryl said at last. “I suppose he’s English, but he acted like every Scot I’ve known. It ought to be written by British writers.”

  “I know,” Hannah admitted. “But this is something I have to do. If you would rather not be a part of it, I understand.”

  Beryl pursed her lips. She looked around Hannah’s office, her eyes eventually coming to rest on the shooting script for Robin Hood.

  “It’s your job I want someday. There’s nae better place for me to start getting it.” She took out her monocle and polished it. “I respect what you’re doing. I see now why Sidney thought I’d be ideal for Sapphire, and I expect I ought be flattered.”

  “You are very good,” Hannah said. “I should think you’ll have my job at your own company within five years.”

  Beryl selected a biscuit, iced with a delicate leaf pattern. She turned it over in her hand, admiring it. Then she looked up at Hannah and gave her a curt nod. “’Tis your creation, this, I ken that very well. You can do as you like and good on you.”

  “What I like,” Hannah said, “is to hire writers who can make this story sing. These writers on the blacklist, they know exactly what it is to suddenly be an outlaw in their own nation. They’ll make everyone feel it, and that’s what I want. That’s when I’ll call this show a success.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That afternoon, Hannah went to the film studio in Surrey to check that everything was ready for filming. A small crew was busy putting on finishing touches and getting things organized. They saw her and very nearly snapped to attention, making Hannah feel like a visiting general on an army base.

  “Gentlemen, please, as you were,” she said with a cheery laugh that made them all smile. It was peculiar, seeing herself viewed by all these young men with what couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than admiration. Possibly this was what it was like to brim with sex appeal. Except this was better, because they were admiring her power as the creator of this make-believe kingdom they had built. She was so very unexpected—a woman, an American, a mother, and yet the queen of all this, the source of their income and their path to a long and great career.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Wolfson” and “Can I have someone bring you some tea, Miss Wolfson?” and “Would you like to see how the tower stairs lock into the wall for an exterior swordfight?”

  It was heady stuff.

  Though it was Peter Proud, the art director, who was senior enough to take charge of her needs and show off the glory of the scenery, every man sought to have a word with her, and she made sure to address each one by name. The attention was almost unbearably flattering. This was, she realized, the sort of feeling that must lead some women into having affairs.

  As much as she enjoyed the company, her true pleasure was in the creation, and the innovation. She had directed Peter Proud to let his fancy run free, and he had done himself as proud as his name.

  “It’s a whole new technique, like nothing anyone’s seen in television production, Miss Wolfson,” he gushed as he showed off the pieces of scenery that would be rooms in a castle, or a hut, or whatever was needed. “We don’t need those sorts of massive sets where your fellas would spend ages lining up cameras. I told you I thought putting these bits of scenery on wheels would work, and you see?” He pointed to the fat wheels under the castle and hut. “These will zip right in and out and then the rest dressed with bits as needed. We’ll shoot scenes in a snap. And it’ll look handsomer than any other program on the box, Miss Wolfson.”

  “That was the idea, Mr. Proud. You’ve done a brilliant job.”

  She left him to bask in the glory of her praise and walked alone to the stretch of woodland that would stand in for Sherwood Forest. In the middle, surrounded by trees and bracken and birdsong, she looked up through the leaves to the sky.

  “What a long way from Orchard Street you’ve come, Miss Wolfson,” she marveled.

  A red squirrel, commencing upon its afternoon acorn, chittered at her. Hannah looked at it and it glared back, letting her know in no uncertain terms that the acorn was not for sharing.

  Woods, though, woods should be for everyone, she decided with some mild guilt at Sapphire’s exclusive ownership of these trees. Robin Hood would have disapproved.

  When the time comes, Sapphire will gift these back to Surrey. They’ll be a park, where anyone who ever loved this show can come and sit among the trees that transported them from their front rooms and into Sherwood Forest.

  She hefted herself onto the low branch of an oak, something she was never allowed to do on rare childhood visits to Central Park, and let herself feel transported.

  * * *

  • • •

  That night, after the Little Engine, along with vociferous support from Rhoda and Julie, thought it could, Hannah stroked the sleeping Julie and whispered an adventure to Rhoda. “The pirate queen befriends a wolf, and chases it all through the woods, swinging around the trees, on and on, into the
Land of Dreams.”

  “Pirates and wolves,” whispered Paul from the doorway. “She’ll turn into an outlaw herself.”

  “A little wildness never hurt anyone,” Hannah said fondly. She shut the bedroom door and joined Paul in the living room.

  “I don’t know, Hannah, people expect differently of girls now. We’re back to living in more settled times.”

  “If these are such settled times, why aren’t you and I back in New York?”

  Paul poured a double whiskey and grinned at her.

  “Because you want to be a career woman, and HUAC would be down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  Hannah laughed. “You make me sound like a gangster. Speaking of HUAC, there’s another blacklistee in town. A young lady writer, for a wonder.”

  “Just what our group needs, another mouth to feed.” Paul rolled his eyes.

  “This one’s got a smart mouth on her, she’ll feed herself all right,” Hannah said, not mentioning the job she’d handed out. Instead she fetched his pipe and asked about his day. He regaled her with his adventures in research and writing, and she snuggled beside him, feeling as warm and contented as Rhoda. She closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Phoebe inhaled two cigarettes in fifteen minutes as she walked away from the Sapphire offices. The Player’s were growing on her. She hesitated by a sweetshop, longing for a Hershey’s bar and gearing up for Dairy Milk instead, when she spotted a sign indicating she was near the Victoria & Albert Museum. Museums calmed her. She liked how they were clean and quiet, such respectful repositories of the past. They were always a good place to order her thoughts. Phoebe followed the sign to the doors and entered.