Hannah went with Beryl down to the main door and peeked. It had been years, but she knew the face of the tall, lanky American. A bit more grizzled than she remembered, and the shock of salt-and-pepper hair was more salty, but it was him.
“Langham!” she cried, admitting him.
Frank Langham was one of the innovative firebrand directors in the Group Theatre in the 1930s. Hannah, as a radical, theater-loving young journalist, often mixed with the Group crowd. Success had taken Frank to Hollywood and the less firebrand but much more lucrative work as a midlevel film director. They’d lost touch, but Frank was unforgettable. Hannah grinned until she felt guilty, remembering one night at Bertolt Brecht’s house, long before she met Paul, when she and Frank experimented first with reefer, then each other. The details were hazy, but Frank and his grin weren’t.
“Tallyho, here I am in Blighty,” he said in a two-pack-a-day rasp. “You’d think the Group would have gotten me here sooner. Kazan left me off his list, that old hangdog, but someone sang somewhere, and so hello, old pal.”
Hannah smiled—Frank still talked like a Damon Runyon character—but the smile was sad, because of course he was blacklisted. Elia Kazan, that turncoat of the Group, might have spared him, but Hoover’s FBI and HUAC were damned if they’d let anyone once so radical get out alive.
“Well, what the heck was I doing with a six-bedroom house anyhow?” Frank demanded. “The old lady and I only have three kiddies. And a pool, cripes, remember when the pool was just chasing craps games? The French were warmer than that damn pool ever was, let me in to direct two films, how about that? But I was missing the sound of English. Or what passes for it here.”
Gradually, he admitted that his wife, lonely and embarrassed by exile and worried for their children’s future, had divorced him and returned to California. None of his easy jokes could hide that he was obviously in between jobs, and desperate.
Hannah’s smile never cooled, but she was annoyed at herself for being surprised and disappointed that this was why Frank was here. Of course he was calling on their old friendship in the hopes of a bone she could throw. Film directors thought television was a step down, but work was work, and anyway, Robin Hood was shot like a film itself, one of the reasons it looked so terrific on the small screen.
Frank was an excellent director. The crew might not love an American script supervisor, but a director with an Oscar nomination under his belt would be something else again. Likely they all harbored dreams of Hollywood, however much devotion they professed to the British industry. Just as likely, they wouldn’t know, or care, that he was blacklisted. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t try to jeopardize their plum jobs. But still. The writers were secret. This, this was visible, and memorable. This could be asking for trouble.
“Listen, don’t worry,” Frank assured her. “I’ve got a line on a film, if they can get the funding. I was just itching to keep my chops oiled.”
“Of course,” she said courteously. “Next year will probably be easier for us, hiring an American director.” She knew she was right. But this was old Langham, with frays on his cuffs and patches on his jacket. “Then again, we’ve got an episode that’s going to demand a lot of tight shots in dark places, and your noir expertise might be just the ticket.”
She didn’t imagine the hope that lit up his face, reminding her of the shiny young man he’d once been.
“Hannah, you’re an A1 doll, and that’s the truth.”
She hoped Sidney and the others would agree. But “share and share alike,” after all, and she wasn’t having anyone suggest she’d become someone who wouldn’t help out a friend.
“He will be good,” Sidney agreed when he heard, rubbing his head. “Crikey, fancy an Oscar nominee willing to work for a television salary.”
“Ah well,” Hannah said. “If I have my way, a television salary will soon be nothing to sneeze at.”
“And you always get your way,” Sidney said, admiringly. “He’ll have a pseudonym for a credit, of course, and if anyone on set even knows about his status, they won’t think much of it. Not enough to question you, anyway. But maybe we only use him just this once.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Hannah agreed. “Just once. That can’t possibly hurt anything.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Neither reading the scripts nor watching the episodes being filmed prepared Phoebe for the effect of viewing Robin Hood on a television screen. She was relieved that Joan’s son Alvie sat an inch from the screen and thought nothing of the adults behind him so he couldn’t see her open mouth.
“Gosh!” he cried as the credits rolled. “Ain’t that something?”
Charlie was too busy writing to watch the show, but Joan and Phoebe agreed with the young boy. It was something.
“Maybe next week you can have Freddie up to watch too?” Phoebe suggested.
“Maybe,” Joan said evasively. Alvie, no longer interested now that adults were talking, disappeared into his bedroom. Phoebe knew he sometimes played with Freddie but was still obedient enough to his parents’ interests to keep the boy from becoming a friend. A funny way of classing people from supposed leftists. Phoebe resolved to push the issue later in the week. Freddie ought to see the show. In the meantime, she got to the set early each day that week to paw through the trades in the publicity office, thrilling to the numbers. She was so excited, she even ventured to speak of it to the Other Girls.
“Get a load of these audiences, huh?” she said. “Heck, I know shows in New York that would have thrown a daylong party for just a tenth of those numbers.”
“Didn’t you just,” Dora said wryly. “Very nice, I’m sure, but here we’ve got work to carry on with,” Dora said with a sniff, leading the Other Girls away. It was just as well. In her exuberance, Phoebe might have forgotten herself enough to mention that she’d written for the show that would have thrown the party.
Her pride in being a small part of this production made writing a script even harder. What could she write that would capture the affection of a brat like Alvie? Or, better, an openhearted kid like Freddie?
I don’t know what it is, she wrote to Mona. It can’t be that a person needs to be a fellow to write this sort of thing. It’s just that something’s missing.
Phoebe sighed and looked out her window at the endless peaks of sooty Victorian roofs. She knew exactly what was missing. Her fingers traced the photos of Mona and Anne. She thought of Perry Street, of Floyd and Leo, of all the people she might have said hello to on their various ways here and there. And she’d never gotten to say goodbye. She wondered if any of them ever asked about her. Anne wouldn’t say. Probably just as well. It was dangerous to ask, and more so to tell.
As badly as she wanted to go home, she had to stay here. She’d ducked a subpoena. A real crime, more easily punishable than the accusation of Communism. She needed the refuge England offered, and had to hope that offer would be extended. It was time to renew her residency permit.
In her little box of important papers was the elegant card given to her by Nigel Elliot, the aristocrat—she presumed—whose life she had saved on the ship. It was tempting to contact him, to ask his good advice again. She sighed and put aside the card. Men like that didn’t want to be asked too many favors. Better to save him for when she had something to exchange—news of real success, which he would enjoy. Or if she was desperate. That too.
* * *
• • •
“You’ll be fine,” Joan encouraged her. “Just don’t tell them the truth.”
Phoebe grumbled over these instructions as she followed Joan’s usual meticulous directions to the tiny office squirreled away in a large building in Whitehall. Here was where she would tell more lies, all to buy more time in safety. As she opened the door, a young woman in a wooden chair burst into tears. A man embraced her, gazing imploringly up at another man in
a uniform.
“We have been here a year. We have work, we are Jamaican, that is part of Britain, all is in order.”
“You did not declare a criminal record,” the official said in a cool voice.
“I am no criminal!” the woman wailed. “It was a lie! My missus here swears by me, only read this letter, please!”
“You may stay,” the official said to the man. “But your wife must be deported, pending investigation.”
“This is not acceptable!” the man cried.
“I must ask you to remain orderly,” the official said. “You may seek counsel.”
Phoebe tore her eyes from the miserable couple to see a pert young woman with ferocious red curls behind the desk, eyeing her unsmilingly.
“I’m here to renew my residency, please,” Phoebe stammered. She was aware of the couple leaving and couldn’t bear turning around to see if they were under escort.
“Passport,” the redhead said, extending her hand.
I should have looked. I should have given them one look of real sympathy. Let them know there was a friend in this cold room. Is this how it happens, then? One mistake, or someone’s lie, and off you go?
She surrendered her little green passport with a trembling hand. (“The American embassy really puts the screws in the Brits, trying to get them not to give us residency,” Joan had chirped over coffee. “Shirley and Will got a letter from the embassy, asking them to send in their passports for ‘checking.’ They didn’t, of course, but you do wonder.”) Phoebe stood there, wondering. Could the embassy have instructed the British to seize her passport? Would the British comply? And then what would happen? The redhead bore her passport away, leaving Phoebe to stand and sweat. Her toes ached. It had been a while since she’d worn her good heels.
The redhead returned, her face still closed. She came near enough to the desk that Phoebe could read her discreet name badge: Miss C. Smith.
“What does the C stand for?” Phoebe asked, wanting to pretend friendliness. It must be harder, surely, to hurt someone you felt vague kinship with? Then again, she remembered Jimmy’s face after he’d followed her and Anne to the docks. Nothing she’d ever done for him mattered. Who had promised him what, if he could stop her?
The redhead kept her fingers on Phoebe’s passport. Phoebe felt the sharp eyes assessing her, noting the suit, hat, watch, pearls lent by Joan.
“Cassie,” the redhead said, after some deliberation. A nickname. Phoebe had passed one test.
“Reason for extending your stay?” Cassie asked.
“I’m writing a novel,” Phoebe announced. “A real corker”—since when did she use that word?—“about a woman in medieval England. Being here is great for research and atmosphere, you see.”
She knew she didn’t imagine the flicker of interest in Cassie’s eyes.
“And how far along are you?”
“I’ve barely scratched the surface, I’d think.”
“And you have funds enough to live on?”
“I do,” Phoebe answered stoutly.
Cassie nodded and stamped Phoebe’s passport. Six months.
“Gosh, really?” Phoebe yelped.
Cassie rolled her eyes up to Phoebe.
“You expected something different?”
Phoebe could have kicked herself. Why, why did she have to lose control of her mouth now? Six months was such a gift, compared to seven weeks. Though a year would have been better. Or five. Time she hoped she didn’t need, but would be grateful for, just in case. She didn’t want to end up like that couple. As much as she wanted to go home, she didn’t want to go like that.
“No, no, that’s great, thanks,” Phoebe said. Her reward came as Cassie slid the passport back to her. She tucked it in her bag, keeping her fingers on it. “Thank you, Miss Smith,” she said in a tone she hoped combined British formality and American friendliness. “Good afternoon.” She was out before there was any hope of a mind being changed.
Six months. A lot could happen in six months. Eisenhower could insist the persecutions by HUAC be suspended. Hollywood could decide the maintenance of the blacklist was too much trouble. The ACLU could start pushing back at last. J. Edgar Hoover and the whole of HUAC could have a pool party that was struck by lightning. One just never knew.
Her feet skipped of their own accord as she swung herself onto the bus.
* * *
• • •
Freddie was outside with his group of cohorts.
“I see you more often than your mother,” Phoebe greeted him. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re the one who really runs this show.”
His face flushed with pleasure, and Phoebe was rather touched. She reached into her purse and pulled out the first coin she laid hands on—a sixpence.
“Here,” she said, handing it to the overwhelmed Freddie. “For doing such good work. Have a chocolate or something.”
Freddie was promptly surrounded by his pals, all offering their considered opinions on what he should buy, and any thanks were lost in the scrum. Phoebe chuckled as she went upstairs to see Joan.
“Sixpence, really?” Joan scolded. Of course she’d seen the exchange—the woman was the Mata Hari of Meard Street. “A penny would have been enough to transport that poor child.”
“So six puts him in seventh heaven,” Phoebe said with a shrug. “Anyway, it’s a celebration. Residency renewed for six months.”
“Golly!” Joan was impressed. “Last time I only got thirty days.”
She laughed at Phoebe’s stunned face, and silenced questions with envelopes. Mail! She couldn’t wait to dive into Mona’s words and Anne’s drawings.
“Open that one!” Joan cried, pointing to an envelope that only bore her name, Miss Phoebe Adler, in a disciplined handwriting she didn’t recognize.
Dear Miss Adler,
It has been my grave misfortune not to meet you again at the library, and hear more about your novel, or indeed learn anything further about you. Maybe we can arrange a meeting somewhere else? If you’re amenable, I do hope I hear from you.
Reg Bassill
An address was at the bottom, but Phoebe was too shaken to read it.
The man from the library. He had followed her! Was he a spy? Or worse? Every crime story she’d ever read scrolled through her brain. There was this sort of man, the quiet, unassuming type, attractive without being so handsome as to be suspicious, who lured his victims slowly, with a gentle sweetness. He enjoyed the surprise in their eyes when he finally revealed his true intentions. Phoebe burned with rage. So this Reg thought she, a friendless, rudderless American, was an easy target, did he? Well, he’d have to try a lot harder to catch Phoebe Adler unawares.
“He was so charming,” Joan said, unable to contain herself. “You have to admit, the English have a way about them. So well-spoken.”
So he had charmed Joan, had he? Enough to convince her to pass on this note. Well, didn’t he think he was smart.
“He can have his way somewhere else,” Phoebe said. “The only man in my life right now is Robin Hood, and he’s already more than I can handle.”
She ignored Joan’s disappointment. If it was romance Joan wanted to experience, there was no shortage of it in the afternoon radio plays.
* * *
• • •
“What a hit we are in America!” Hannah marveled, drinking in the numbers. “And these reviews. ‘A real asset to the airwaves.’ ‘One of the first truly great new entertainments of the television age geared toward kids.’”
“’Tis still impressive even after a fourth read,” Sidney agreed, grinning.
Hannah grinned too. She knew she was carrying on to excess, but she couldn’t help it and didn’t want to. To Sidney, being a hit in America was gratifying, and meant more money. To Hannah, it meant she had done all she’d aimed to do and more. She’
d made a mark, landing a solid hit to the jaw of everyone who ever tried to stop her, especially the madmen who had hounded so many out of their work, reputations, and country. Those men would never guess a costume adventure beloved by kids would defy them, tell them how wrong, wicked, cowardly they were. Smack them back for every time they demanded, “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?”
The phone rang—Beryl announced it was Shirley.
“Hannah, thank goodness!” Hannah hardly recognized the voice of Shirley LeGrand, usually so deep and measured. Now she spoke in a squeak. “Hedda Hopper’s here, in London. Officially, she’s just doing a publicity tour, but it’s whispered she’s got information, she’s looking for blacklistees on sets! Hannah, she may be heading straight for Robin Hood! And Langham’s directing this week. Strife!”
Hannah’s heart chilled. Hedda Hopper. The crisp little voice on the radio, the poison pen in the papers, was here, as she promised, hunting “Runaway Reds.” And no doubt getting an expenses-paid holiday. Someone had given her information. Someone had betrayed them.
Shirley continued, her voice higher and tighter. “You’ve got to get Langham off that set, now!”
Hannah hung up and dialed the publicity office at the studio. Hedda Hopper, who gleefully ruined the careers of anyone she hated, heading for Robin Hood. It certainly would make a terrific story, this shiny new success, aimed straight at kids, made by blacklistees. Hedda Hopper wouldn’t be able to uncover the real names of the writers, but she knew Frank Langham on sight. Reporting him as a director on Robin Hood, even for one episode, could be lethal.
“Publicity, Miss Brown!” a chirpy voice answered the phone.
“Hello . . .” Hannah glanced at the staff roster. “Pamela dear, this is Miss Wolfson.”
She could almost hear the girl’s spine straighten.
“Yes, Miss Wolfson, how can I help?” she asked reverentially.
“Is Miss Smithson there, or soon back?” Ena Smithson was the senior publicist, with a long career in theater. This girl, fresh out of school, was her assistant. “Sharp as a tack and eager to learn,” Ena had told Hannah.
Red Letter Days Page 17
