“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Paul said. He grinned in apology. “However it goes, at least you won’t be bouncing around on your toes like a nervous cat.”
Hannah looked down. She hadn’t even realized she was barefoot and, indeed, on her toes.
“Jings,” she said, giggling. “I’m starting to walk like Sidney. He bounces on his toes when he’s excited,” she explained.
“I’m sure he does,” Paul said flatly. “What the heck does ‘jings’ mean anyway?”
“I don’t know the etymology,” Hannah said. “But I’ve come to like it.”
* * *
• • •
What with the news of the American distribution deal and the upcoming premiere, the Robin Hood set blazed with excitement and chatter. When people started talking quickly, Phoebe still couldn’t understand one word in ten, but she could tell people were organizing viewing parties. Everyone, it seemed, was going to one. Except her.
“Miss Wolfson’s invited all the most important people,” Dora told the rest of the Other Girls. Her voice rose when she was sure Phoebe could hear. “And some Americans, too, apparently.”
Phoebe had to hand it to her. Whether or not her information was correct, she certainly knew how to time a line. And make it stick. Dora was right—Phoebe might have distracted herself wondering if all the exiles were invited to the party and she wasn’t. She might have, except that she had something else to occupy her.
She was, for the first time in her life, suffering writer’s block. Several drafts of a Robin Hood script later, and she had made little progress. It didn’t help that all the scripts she’d read so far were not just excellent, they were little works of art. Hannah must have all the best blacklisted writers throughout America at her disposal. Phoebe believed in her own ability, but she couldn’t help feeling she wasn’t at this level, and that anything she handed in would be disappointing. There was suddenly nothing Phoebe wanted more than to impress Hannah. She felt certain that to accomplish that would open up a whole new world—one that would catapult her far beyond the world she knew with Hank.
If she could impress Hannah.
The phantom Mona and Anne were stubbornly silent on the topic. She still couldn’t bring herself to confide in Joan. She had to solve the problem on her own. Under normal circumstances, she shook away cobwebs by walking up and down each New York street where she hoped to someday afford to live. There was nothing she wanted to own in what she saw on a Sunday stroll through London. And for all of Soho’s grit and rebelliousness, it was nothing like Greenwich Village, where a quiet Sunday could still yield a coffee at Floyd and Leo’s, a pizza, or chow mein. Some poky theater would be sure to have a performance. On a bright day, you could always troop over to Washington Square Park, where musicians were jamming and a few old men were willing to wipe the floor with you at chess.
Though Phoebe poked and prodded, she found nothing open on Sundays, in Soho or anywhere nearby. Some pubs did Sunday lunches, and she supposed there must be restaurants catering to tourists or the wealthy and entitled, but none of this interested her. Newspapers insisted Britain was on the rise again, that there would soon be no signs of bomb damage, that in fact life had never been better, but Phoebe, though grateful to feel free, couldn’t shake the feeling that London was a city whose greatness was gone, and that she’d left the glittering future to enter a weary past.
Well, that’s the attitude that’s going to take you far, Mona scolded.
With help like that, Phoebe almost preferred the phantom stay silent.
* * *
• • •
“I’m not so sure about this party,” Paul teased as Hannah and Gemma prepared nibbles. “Everything’s closed on Sunday nights. They’ll stay till dawn.”
“I can think of worse ways to mark the debut of the first TV show where I’m the sole executive producer,” Hannah said. “Here, what do you think?” She popped a deviled egg into his mouth.
“More pepper,” he said. “We should have said I’m the host tonight, so I look like a properly supportive husband.”
“You are one, no one would think otherwise,” Hannah said, reaching up to kiss his nose. “We support each other beautifully.”
“We do,” he agreed. “And listen, the timing isn’t super, but my story needs your eagle eye. I’d like to get it in the mail tomorrow—can only hope the editor receives it by next week. God, I miss couriers. I hate to end the party early, but—”
“But of course!” Hannah cried, giving him a squeeze. “I’ll clear the house by eight and bring out my biggest red pencil.”
“You really don’t mind, sweetheart?” He looked worried.
“Of course not, this is what we do, what we’ve always done,” she said.
He laughed and kissed her neck. “You’re my best girl.”
As soon as Paul’s office door clicked shut, Gemma turned to Hannah.
“Mighty shame to end a party early,” she said. “Have I not gone and made my special coconut drops?”
“It’s Sunday,” Hannah said. “Even subversives go to bed early on Sundays.”
“Monday morn good enough to start changing the world again,” Gemma murmured as she bore a tray of deviled eggs into the living room. Hannah stopped ladling cream cheese into celery and lit a cigarette. She didn’t really want to end the party early.
In the living room, Gemma stacked the reviews Hannah had spent the morning poring over. Hannah took them up again and reveled in each one. “A remarkable entertainment.” “Witty, adventurous, and great fun.” “Sure to please the kiddies, and with intelligence enough to delight adults as well.” On and on. Everyone knew good reviews didn’t guarantee a hit; only actual audience response would tell her anything. But good reviews could pull a large audience. They were looking for numbers, the money people. If the show got them, it would go on. If it didn’t . . .
“Mama, Mama, Mama, does it start soon?” Rhoda shouted, hurtling up to Hannah. She was wearing her pirate costume, the closest thing she had to looking like Robin Hood. “Can I have a pie and cheese?” Rhoda went on. “Can I open the door when they arrive?”
“You may open the door,” Hannah granted. “As for snacks, you know the rules. Guests first.”
Julie toddled in, helped by Gemma. “Eggy!” she hollered, pointing at the tower of deviled eggs.
“Guests first!” Rhoda shouted at her. “That’s the rule, didn’t you know?”
In the midst of this fracas, Shirley and Will LeGrand arrived. Shirley gave Hannah an enormous bouquet of cowslips. “Natives of Nottingham, like your hero,” Shirley explained. Her smile was strained. Before Hannah could ask if she was all right, Will read Hannah’s expression.
“The NAACP is purging suspected Communists from its rolls,” he said.
“Oh strife,” Shirley said. “We needn’t discuss it here and now.”
“We are living and working here and now because our own country won’t allow us freedom of thought,” Will said. “If we forget that, we are in danger of accepting it.”
“Not a chance,” Hannah said. “Not when Dashiell Hammett’s in prison but Elia Kazan gets to keep directing movies.” The name Elia Kazan always elicited a hiss from the exiles. Once a firebrand and member of the Group Theatre, he then readily named names before HUAC and was now going from strength to strength. And Hammett! The novelist behind the smash-hit Thin Man series was sent to prison for contempt because he refused to answer questions about the Civil Rights Congress, of which he was president. HUAC believed putting more famous people in prison served as a warning to anyone who thought they should be able to hold whatever views they wanted in a country that was supposed to be free.
Into this gloom burst Sidney, rubbing his hands and bouncing on his toes.
“I cannae stop reading the reviews! Brilliant, aren’t they? Who knew the boys in the papers had s
uch good taste? ’Tis as I say, give them quality and they’ll appreciate it.”
“Funny, I’ve never heard you say that,” Hannah said good-naturedly, kissing his cheek. Rhoda pelted into the foyer and begged to hang up coats. Paul followed, laughing, and the others laughed too. Things might be bad in America, but this was, after all, a party.
Paul hefted Rhoda to the coatrack so she could hang things properly. She squealed with each lift, and Hannah watched fondly. Paul was always so busy with work, he rarely focused on his children. Hannah understood—his own upbringing was mostly by nannies, after all. But the thought stayed at the back of her mind as she greeted Beryl, Peter Proud, and Terry Bishop. Paul certainly adored the girls as much as she did, but she needed to find a way to free up more of his time so he could show it more. He was missing out on something special.
“Places, people!” Sidney cried, and Hannah’s heart lurched. It was time. Paul turned on the television as Hannah gathered Julie into her lap and settled Rhoda next to her.
The twannnnngggg! of the loosed arrow that heralded the beginning and brought up the opening title was louder than she remembered from the screening room. She felt the little shiver of pleasure that went through the group.
As the show unfolded, she found herself looking not at the screen but at Rhoda. They’d had several long talks about how she was to sit quietly without interruptions, and remember questions for when the show was over, but as bright as Rhoda was, she was also still a child and, as Paul rightly said, a bit too young for Robin Hood. Yet she sat, utterly enraptured by the talk of intrigue and violence, and then actual swordplay. She emitted one small “oh!” of sorrow when a deer was killed, but clenched her hands together under her chin at the explanation that it was killed to feed starving children. Nothing either Gemma or Hannah had ever told her about starving children—and thus the importance of eating what was set before her—had ever stirred such emotion. Even the language Hannah was sure must be well beyond Rhoda, the talk of stealing a man’s land when he was assumed dead, turned the little face red with indignation. A sneaky attempt by the sheriff to kill Robin made Rhoda’s fists ball up in hot fury. Somehow, she seemed to understand that the outlaws were the ones who had been stolen from, and those who had done the stealing were the ones administering “justice,” and this landed her firmly on the side of the outlaws. Robin’s skill with a bow and arrow made her mouth drop open in pure, admiring awe. Then, as the episode ended and the credits rolled, there under the cast list read: “Executive Producer Hannah Wolfson.” At this, Rhoda could not remain silent.
“That’s you, Mama, that’s you!” she cried, bouncing up and down.
And it was. Hannah hadn’t realized Rhoda could read her name, but she did, and brimmed with ecstasy at the sight. All the hard work was worth it, just for that. She caught Paul’s eye across the top of Rhoda’s head. He gave her his special slow smile. Her heart leapt the way it had when they were first courting and he would look at her with warm desire, and take her hand. And the dancing, goodness the dancing. Neither of them could jitterbug, but oh, could they fox-trot. She’d called him a sly fox, and he’d called her a little vixen. How had she forgotten that? The dancing stopped after marriage. Work, political travails, escaping abroad, Rhoda and Julie. There was no space left for dancing.
Sidney pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. “Good work, Madam Executive Producer,” he congratulated her.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Associate Producer,” she said, clinking glasses. Then she turned to the group. “Thank you all so much for coming to share this moment with us tonight. I can’t tell you what it means to me, truly.”
There was a lot of talk then, brushing aside her emotion, flooding her with congratulations. She had, it was agreed, created something truly innovative.
“And yet it’s one of the oldest stories we know,” Hannah said, laughing.
“Everything old is nouveau again,” Shirley said. “And in this case, better than ever.”
Gemma reached for Julie. “Long past bedtime for the babies,” she observed. Rhoda was sleepy enough to not fuss about being called a baby and to accept a good-night kiss. Suddenly she was wide-awake and seized Hannah’s hands.
“Mama!” she said, her voice heavy with urgency. “I need a bow and arrows.”
Everyone laughed except Paul. “Rhoda, those aren’t toys.” He frowned.
“Oh, but they will be,” Hannah said. “I’ve already got the plans in place.”
“Aye, that she has,” said Sidney. “There won’t be a bairn in Britain not seeking to be an archer.”
Shirley snorted.
“This is how we know you’re not Communists. You wouldn’t be so set on taking advantage of base commercial capitalism.”
“The more money I earn, the more I can share,” Hannah said, laughing. “And the better television I can make. And anyway, money never hurts.”
“No,” Shirley said agreeably. “It really never does.”
When the guests were gone and the plates stacked in the kitchen, Hannah climbed out of her good heels and collapsed next to Paul, wriggling her toes. She thought of Ring Lardner Jr., whose excellent script had so stirred her child, and wondered what it must be like to write something so good and not be able to put your own name on it.
Paul stroked her hair. “I might not think much of television, but this seems to be a very good show. I’m impressed, dear.”
“Thank you, my darling!” she cried, and kissed him hard. A surge flew through her, like she could leap from roof to roof throughout London. “Do you know what we should do? We should go out dancing.”
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “Can’t you hear the tumbleweeds rolling by?”
“I bet there’s somewhere, maybe in Soho,” she persisted. “There’s always somewhere. Let’s chase adventure! What a story that would be.”
“I’ve already got a story going, remember?” he said pointedly.
She’d forgotten her promise to read his story that night. Her guilt compounded as she realized it was the last thing she felt like doing. Her toes curled, eager to leap and twirl.
“Of course, darling, I’m longing to read your latest bit of genius,” she said. “But first, let’s put on a record and have a quick dance. Just one.”
“Another time, all right?” He kissed her forehead. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’ll bring in the pages and head to bed. Thanks again, my girl.”
She settled down with his work and a red pencil. She forced herself to read, but couldn’t focus. All the words seemed to be in the wrong order. With a sigh, she poured another drink and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. She was suddenly aware of the quiet, of her own solitude. There was something exhilarating about being the only one awake in a house. As though the night might last forever, spilling out in a sea of possibilities. She flipped through the records and put “In the Mood” on low to dance herself around the room.
“Well, look at you, my lady,” she whispered. “You might be well past girlhood, with two babies to prove it, but you still dance like a little vixen.”
As she whirled around, she thought they should add an episode of Robin Hood featuring one of the wives left behind to struggle on when a husband becomes an outlaw. Perhaps he sneaks home, and they look at each other, strangers now, she with resentment, he with guilt. But they remember something, the something that was between them when they first met. A village fete, a feast day, some sort of thing. Maid Marian would be the one to help them reconcile, though only briefly, because of course he must run off again soon or be killed by the sheriff. There might seem something romantic about being an outlaw, accused of a crime you didn’t commit, but whatever it did for romance, it didn’t do much for love.
The next afternoon, ITV sent her a gift basket the size of Rhoda. The numbers were stratospheric. The show was a smash hit. ITV was already keen
to discuss a second thirty-two episode season. I’m a hit! Hannah thought. A palpable hit! She hugged herself. A classic New York “pinko” was poking her fingers in HUAC’s eyes, and they had no idea.
* * *
• • •
“It’s overwhelming, is what it is!” Beryl grumbled. Writers’ agents were sending dozens of inquiries a day, offering their clients for consideration for a Robin Hood script, or another upcoming Sapphire project. “They seem to think we’ll take just anyone.” She cocked a brow. It was a joke no one could laugh at—according to the Robin Hood credits, Sapphire did take anyone, whether they had a credit or not, so long as they had talent.
Sidney was in his element. Hannah worried he might topple over from dancing on his toes so much. Everyone with any money was longing to do a deal with Sapphire. As soon as they had another show developed, they could run wild. “One company against the world!” Hannah cried, kicking off her shoes so she could concentrate. She had a new script to read. Not, she noted, from Phoebe. She was surprised. Even more surprising was that she was disappointed. Phoebe seemed to have a voice. Hannah couldn’t help being curious to read her take on Robin Hood. Then again, maybe she wasn’t surprised. Phoebe had likely realized that her voice wasn’t right for the show. Not that Hannah had planned on using her anyway, but she had thought the younger woman would at least give it a good effort.
Oh well, there was plenty else to do. She tuned the radio, briefly getting the BBC announcing, “And in Washington, actor Zero Mostel is due to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee . . .” Hannah flipped the dial until her irritation was soothed by Chuck Berry singing “Maybellene.”
“Fellow’s come calling,” Beryl interrupted, scowling. “Says he’s Frank Langham.”
“And is he?” Hannah asked, hairs on her arms rising.
“How can anyone prove anything?” Beryl asked, throwing up her hands.
Red Letter Days Page 16
