Joan, standing at the door, saw the smile and beamed back, waving as exuberantly as if Phoebe were on a ship about to dock, rather than mere yards away.
“It’s wonderful to see you!” Joan cried, pressing Phoebe’s hand with the warmth of a longtime friendship. The warmth was real, though, and Phoebe found herself returning the friendly squeeze, which made Joan smile even more broadly. “Come and meet Mrs. Cotley!” she said. “She’s waiting at the door of your new apartment, or ‘flat’ I should say! When in Rome, right?”
Joan practically dragged Phoebe to the top floor, where a careworn woman in an apron and headscarf leaned against a mop. She nodded perfunctorily.
“Mrs. Morrison says you’re a decent young lady,” she greeted Phoebe in a rough accent that was hard to follow.
“I had to explain that you being a working girl wasn’t like what’s usually meant around here,” Joan said, giggling.
“I’m running a respectable place,” Mrs. Cotley warned. “No funny business.”
“There’s nothing much funny about my business,” Phoebe promised.
Mrs. Cotley nodded again and opened the door. Phoebe swallowed her disappointment as she was overwhelmed by the smell of stale cigarettes and damp cloth. The two rooms with their severely sloping ceilings must have been servants’ quarters once. Phoebe’s eyes traveled from the chipped sink, tiny icebox, and two-burner hot plate to the sagging sofa and rickety coffee table, coming to rest on a parson’s table and chair that fit perfectly under the window, bathed in light. A space made for a writer.
The table and chair made it easier to ignore the dark sliver of a bedroom, hooks in the wall instead of a wardrobe, and peeling wallpaper. She staggered a little when Mrs. Cotley explained that the shared bathroom was down the corridor and that this was a “cold-water flat.” But Joan made it warmer, there was the light on the table, and there was music down the street.
Joan clapped gleefully as Phoebe and Mrs. Cotley shook hands. “I’ll come help you get your things,” Joan offered. But Phoebe thought of Ernie at the pub with sudden regret and said no, she’d like to do it herself. “Well, I’ll keep lunch warm for you,” Joan promised.
Ernie looked sorry as he settled her bill—and Phoebe was sure his charge of ten shillings was much less than what it ought to be—but he spoke cheerfully and insisted on carrying Phoebe’s bags down to the street and hailing her a taxi.
“Of course you must have a proper home of your own, miss. No nice girl wants to stop in a pub for long, it’s not right, miss,” he said. “You’ll be careful there in Soho, all right, miss, it’s a bit rough. And if you’re ever over this way, do be sure and stop in for a drop of something, miss.”
He shut her into the cab and off she went, with only the lingering smell of ale in her coat to remind her of her first friend in London.
No. Not the first. That’s Nigel. She half considered dropping him a note, but decided to wait until she had made a little money with this job on Robin Hood or, better, sold a script. She liked the idea of impressing him.
London’s streets were dull and dusty, but Phoebe’s eyes were drawn to flashes of color from flowers, either in window boxes or hanging from lampposts. A city coming back to life.
Phoebe had only just paid the driver when Joan appeared and seized her suitcase.
“You don’t have to do that,” Phoebe insisted, but Joan was already well ahead of her. Upstairs, they set down the suitcase and typewriter, and Joan looked around with satisfaction.
“Just needs a good cleaning and it’ll be fine,” she declared. “Come have lunch.”
Joan and Charlie’s flat was like the inside of a Victorian postcard, covered with tassels, frills, and doilies. A soft, steady hum of big band music emanated from a tiny radio. Joan swayed a little to the music as she set out bowls and cups. Phoebe surveyed the living room and kitchen, noting several photographs of two young boys in well-polished frames.
“My angels!” Joan said dotingly as she served soup and sandwiches. “The poor dears, off making the most of things before school starts. They hate the schools here. I keep telling them, if they got used to the weather, they’ll get used to the school, and anyway it’s better than being followed by G-men all the time.”
“The FBI followed your sons?” Phoebe was disgusted.
“And me,” Joan said. “I went lingerie shopping lots more than I usually would, just to embarrass them. But we were running out of money, and then we saw that they’d come in the house when we weren’t there—apparently legal, if you can believe it—so it was time to leave. We had to sell our house, that broke my heart. And the IRS put a lien on Charlie’s future earnings, which seemed a bit vindictive.”
Phoebe burned with outrage for Joan, who went on as chattily as if she were discussing the weather.
“We’re hoping Bobby, that’s our eldest, will go to Harvard, Charlie’s alma mater, but he really should be graduating from an American high school. We asked his grandparents to let him stay with them, but they were so appalled at Charlie being a Communist, they said they wanted nothing to do with any of us.”
Phoebe stopped chewing. How could a blood relative behave like that?
“Still, other people have worse troubles,” Joan said with a light laugh. “There are a few blacklisted directors here, doing all right, but they can’t help worrying they’ll get recognized. False names can’t hide your face.”
Phoebe sputtered. “I thought the whole point of being here was that we could work without worrying about that.”
“Oh sure, sure, but you can’t be careless. Word gets out a film has a blacklistee as writer or director, well, you can forget about American distribution.”
Phoebe set down her spoon. Any script she might write for a show distributed back home would have to have a different name on it. The hope she’d treasured in coming here, to keep writing as her own shining self, melted away.
Charlie stumped in from a back room, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Any more coffee?”
“Darling, you remember Phoebe, she’s just moved in across the hall.”
“Oh.” He looked at Phoebe and nodded, embarrassed. “Hello. Sorry, I haven’t shaved or anything.”
“That’s all right, I didn’t either,” she said brightly. He blinked at her a moment, then gave a little bark that might have been a laugh.
“Your thing is funny, huh? Most girls don’t do funny.” He patted her shoulder. “Welcome to the shithole. I gotta get back to work.”
He went back into his lair with a cup of coffee, cigarette still unlit.
Joan leaned in to Phoebe, her voice full of sisterly sympathy. “Did you lose a fellow in the war, is that why you’re not married?”
It would be easy to lie. To be seen as comprehensible. Joan, Phoebe assumed, married at eighteen, had a baby a year later, and couldn’t envision any other sort of life. The day victory was declared in Japan, women were supposed to toss aside their tools and start having babies. The story went that they were now living exalted lives in suburbia, replete with appliances and convenience. Lives scrubbed as clean as the backs of their children’s necks. But it was the ending of their movie, and Phoebe was sure she was still in the beginning of hers, and heading to a very different end.
“Just never met the right fellow,” Phoebe said. “Probably I’m too busy being a career gal,” she added, laughing because she was supposed to.
Joan laughed, too, shaking her head the way they always did. After lunch, Joan gave her a pile of clean linens—“Just until you get a few things of your own.”
Phoebe went to her own flat. If Anne were here, she could draw a picture of the room for Mona. Then they’d get to work stripping the wallpaper and scrubbing the floor. Even without a penny, Anne could always acquire fabric and paint and cushions and turn a hovel into a home.
Phoebe made
the bed and hung up her clothes. Tomorrow she would clean, buy groceries, get a proper coffeepot. For now, she set up her typewriter on the parson’s table. Then she rolled in a sheet of paper. She typed, This isn’t a shithole, it’s a refuge. She grinned. She was beginning to remember what it was to feel real.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
“Oh, so that’s the color the wood is meant to be!” Phoebe exclaimed as the floor was drying after its fourth scrub. “Not a bad shade of brown at all, I’d say.”
Joan tucked some loose hair back under her scarf, smudging her nose. “No. These houses were well built. They have that going for them.”
Phoebe continued scrubbing an unidentified sticky substance off the coffee table.
“This fellow who lived here before me, had he never heard of brooms?”
“He was a bachelor,” Joan said, her voice warm and indulgent.
“And probably will be his whole life unless some girl is very, very unlucky,” Phoebe said. “He could at least have hired Mrs. Cotley to do some cleaning. Or her son, didn’t you say she has a son?”
“I’m sure he had no money to spare,” said Joan.
“Could at least have bought a broom,” Phoebe muttered darkly as she leaned out the window to beat a cushion, setting off clouds of dust.
As badly as Phoebe needed to get to the library and get her bearings on Robin Hood to start her script, the filth in the flat was simply too disgusting to bear. Joan had lent her an old dress and spent every spare minute that weekend helping her clean, only going home when one of her “angels” yowled from the door, “Maaaa, I’m hungry!” Phoebe didn’t even see the boy—the call came and Joan scurried away.
On Sunday, Charlie pitched in and helped scrape off the worst of the peeling wallpaper. Phoebe had no money for paint, but they washed the dingy walls as best they could. As they worked, Charlie, who had been on plenty of film sets, gave Phoebe a quick lesson in the art of script supervision.
“You read along, let the assistant director know if the actor gummed anything up,” he told her. “Don’t let anything be inconsistent. If some fella falls in a mud pile in one scene, his clothes can’t be clean what’s supposed to be minutes later. Got it?”
“So, I pay attention to every detail and make a stink if one’s off, even if it drives everyone nuts,” Phoebe summed up.
“Bingo.”
“No wonder it’s mostly women who do this.”
Despite Hannah’s advice, Phoebe wore her suit to work. She liked the way it presented her as a serious woman, someone of substance. Professional.
The journey to Nettlefold Studios was easy enough—a short walk to the Underground, then a half hour train ride to Surrey and another short walk. Phoebe refused to think about whether or not she was nervous as she followed other arrivals to the main Robin Hood stage. Everyone rushed about with purpose and authority. Phoebe spotted a skinny young man in a Fair Isle sweater and bow tie carrying a large binder, every hallmark of an assistant director. She said, “Excuse me,” three times, then finally tapped him on the shoulder.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“I’m Phoebe Adler, the new script supervisor,” she said, holding out her hand.
He looked appalled, and Phoebe dropped her hand.
“Are you pure American?” he demanded.
Phoebe was baffled. “Do you mean like Seneca or Cherokee?” she asked.
He folded his arms. “Oh, wonderful, a bird who thinks she’s clever, that’s just what I have time for. Did Miss Wolfson approve you?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Phoebe said.
He frowned. “Are you British born, at least? Or Canadian?”
“I’m a New Yorker through and through.”
“I see.” His voice grew chilly. “Miss Wolfson wouldn’t have engaged you if you weren’t capable, but if I were you, dear, I’d tell everyone you’re Canadian. I don’t think they’ll stick an American script girl.”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on getting stuck,” Phoebe answered, but he sprang to attention on seeing a man in a tweed waistcoat and didn’t hear her.
“Morning, Tommy,” the man said. “Everything to schedule?”
“Nearly ready to roll, Mr. Bishop,” Tommy assured the man, who was obviously the director.
“Good, have the cast called to the set.”
He didn’t notice Phoebe. She grinned at Tommy, a man who evidently knew when he had lost a battle.
“Oh, all right, come along. I’ve got the script girl’s notebook on my table. I hope you’re damn good at this job, is all I’ve got to say.”
He wasn’t expecting an answer, so Phoebe made a few sounds she thought conveyed assent as he presented her with another fat binder. She pressed it to her chest as though she were donning armor, swiped a blue pencil, and scanned the table for a production schedule. Scene four was the first order of business, and she arranged the script in her binder accordingly. Then she returned to Tommy.
“Where would you like me to stand?”
“You can wait with the other girls for now, Miss . . . What was it again?”
“Adler. Phoebe Adler.”
“Yes, all right,” he said, as though giving her permission. “No need to stand too close to Mr. Bishop unless he wishes a consultation.”
“Sure thing, Tommy,” Phoebe said, unable to resist the urge to sound as New York as possible.
“The Other Girls” comprised the omnipresent wardrobe, hair, and makeup crew, imperious in their proficiency and savagely protective of their various charges. None of them wore a suit. As Phoebe approached them, she saw that their cardigans and skirts—and in one case, trousers—were carefully darned and patched. They stood a bit straighter on noticing her.
“Hullo,” the trousered one greeted her. “Are you with the producers?”
“Um, no. No, I’m Phoebe Adler. I’m the script sup . . . script girl.” She hoped the term might indicate she was indeed just one of the girls. “And you are . . . ?”
“Dora, makeup,” came the begrudging answer as all three women recoiled from Phoebe like she was wearing skunk cologne. “Are you an American?”
“Well, I’m from New York,” Phoebe said, hoping to make them smile. It was well-known there were huge swathes of Americans who considered New York a country unto itself. New Yorkers, for a start.
“Oh,” said Dora flatly. “Just fancy.”
Phoebe had a funny feeling that “just fancy” was code for “this could not possibly be more ghastly.”
“Miss Wolfson brought me on,” Phoebe said, to establish her credentials. “Apparently they needed someone in short order and I was available.”
“And I expect all the other local girls were booked,” Dora said. “Awfully lucky for us you were so available.”
Phoebe was still struggling with accents, but sarcasm needed no translation.
Shooting began, and everyone snapped to attention. The scene was Robin and two other outlaws planning the rescue of a peasant falsely accused of theft. It was a small scene, simple, setting up the action, but the performances were so riveting, Phoebe couldn’t breathe. She forced herself to concentrate on the page, relieved the actors said all the words correctly. She heard herself sigh when Mr. Bishop called, “Cut!”
Dora, readying her powder and base, heard the sigh. “I hope you’re not fancying one of the actors,” she said, her eyes glinting hopefully.
“Who me?” Phoebe said. “Not at all. I just like a good start to a show.”
Dora was still suspicious, and as the scene was shot from different angles, Phoebe felt the Other Girls watching her, looking for ammunition in a battle she didn’t understand. The scene wrapped and she made a mark in the book, watching in awe as scenery was wheeled away and another piece wheeled in. The next scene began just as smoothly. Before they shifted fo
r alternate takes, someone called something Phoebe didn’t understand but that the rest of the crew did. Everyone stopped work and trooped off to a large table at the edge of the stage.
Hannah was there suddenly, a guardian angel in tweeds.
“It’s elevenses,” Hannah explained. “Tea break. The unions fought hard for it. Don’t ask, just drink. You’re managing all right?”
There was only one answer. Hannah was obviously on some cloud of her own, watching Robin Hood spring to life.
“It’s swell,” Phoebe said. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t bother with thanks,” Hannah instructed. “Just do good work.”
She disappeared again and Phoebe caught sight of Beryl in Hannah’s wake. She could have sworn an eyebrow rose over the monocle, but it happened too fast for Phoebe to be sure. She went to get her tea, ignoring the whispers she was obviously meant to hear:
“Can’t possibly need the work.”
“Probably thinks she’s about to meet the queen in that getup.”
“Maybe thinks she is the queen.”
Phoebe tucked her nose back in the binder to hide her burning cheeks. They’re just jealous, came Mona’s reassuring voice. Sure, Anne echoed. They’d like to have a smart suit and good stockings. They can’t even imagine affording such things.
The Other Girls might have been gratified to know that by five o’clock, after standing nearly all day, Phoebe would trade every stocking she owned to be wearing their flat, ugly, and oh-so-practical shoes instead of her good, toe-pinching high heels. But she had done the job, and Tommy only grunted as she replaced the binder on the table. Tomorrow she would dress more simply. No one would forget, perhaps, but there was always the chance they might forgive.
* * *
• • •
From Hannah’s perspective, this first day of filming was utterly perfect. Though it was Sidney’s job as program producer to oversee the set, Hannah simply had to be there for this. She knew everyone could feel how good it was, that beneath their strict professionalism, they knew they were making something special. The energy on the set was so palpable, even the business-minded Beryl was swept away.
Red Letter Days Page 13
