Nigel was right. The plane was soon taxiing away, and she was safe.
“And anyway,” she said, brightening, “I must have had clearance. You have my passport.”
“Ah. Well, that took a touch of bother with a few other friends. I’m afraid when you go to renew your residency, you should expect your passport to be confiscated again. It was only released on a technicality that will be discovered to be a grievous error.” Nigel looked smug, and Phoebe raised her brows. He leaned in confidentially. “It will transpire that the person who made the error—not that they actually did so, you understand—is someone who’s been very active in assisting Mr. Cohn in rooting out homosexuals from the State Department. The rancor he’ll incur will quite overwhelm any further concern about your doings abroad, so long as you behave.”
Phoebe sat, thinking it all over. The plane took off and she watched the Washington Monument disappear.
“What about Glynn?” she asked. “He could come back and start all over.”
“Not at all,” Nigel said. “A few well-placed individuals have issued some complaints about his methods. Whether he’ll be reprimanded, I don’t know, but he won’t be traveling to Britain anytime soon, that’s certain.”
“So. I’m safe?” It seemed impossible to believe.
“You still need to renew your residency, and that’s an area a bit outside my sphere.”
“What happens if they don’t let me stay?” Phoebe’s heart was exploding all over again. Why? Why wouldn’t anyone just let her live her life?
“Well, your young man could marry you,” Nigel advised as casually as if he were suggesting she order eggs Benedict. “Or you can finagle some sort of passage to France and hope they’re more accommodating, that can happen. But I shouldn’t worry. You’ve been granted residency before. Honestly, much depends on the mood of the agent at the desk. Be your most charming self and I’m sure they won’t resist you.”
“Is that the charming self that spurred Glynn to go to such lengths to get me?”
“Ah, well, some of these Hounds get bees in their bonnets about you ‘Runaway Reds.’” Nigel was comfortable now, and almost sleepy. “Though I daresay whoever named you must have said something far more extraordinary than that you kicked up a fuss with a union.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I’m the next Mata Hari and I don’t even know it.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Nigel. Are you really a diplomat and involved in MI5?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he said. “Where the devil is our supper?”
She would never know. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t her business anyway.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Whoever named her. Whatever they said. She would never know the answer to any of that either.
To hell with them. I’ll spend my life cleaning up my name and then making it big. I’ll rub it in their rotten faces, and have a swell time doing it.
For the first time in days, she breathed properly. She was going home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
* * *
“Here’s to success,” Sidney said, handing Hannah a glass of champagne. The Adventures of Sir Lancelot, happily approved, was starting production. Episodes for the next season of Robin Hood were taking shape. They were more popular than ever. CBS had even sent them an enormous gift basket from Fortnum & Mason—“to make up for that nuttiness.” No one asked her to check writers more closely, and she didn’t volunteer.
It didn’t feel like success, though. Shirley said, “A miss is as good as a mile,” but Phoebe had only just managed to stay out of prison, and the show was secured mostly by luck. There could very easily be a next time. A next time, with no Shirley to help. She and Will had made up their minds. They were going to Ghana after all, to help grow its television industry.
“You’ll hear more from me than you do now,” Shirley comforted her. “I’ll write every day asking your opinion and advice. You’ll rue the day we met.”
But they both knew that wasn’t true. Hannah hardly knew who she’d be without Shirley to see every few days.
“This is the peril, you see, of being the sort of people who want to make a mark in the world,” Shirley said. “You’ve got a legacy. I want one too.”
“Sounds more like the peril of being a good influence,” Hannah said. “Strife.”
Hannah’s solicitor didn’t even have to raise the hammer on Paul. Paul realized that money would buy him quick freedom, and settled twenty thousand dollars on Hannah in exchange for leaving the country and not looking back. Is this how love dies, then, with a sum and a forwarding address?
“You won’t be alone for long,” Shirley said. “Not unless you choose to be.”
“Thanks,” Hannah said, squeezing her hand. “I’m not alone, anyway. Not at all.”
She bought them a smaller flat in Chelsea. Gemma lit a candle inside it and pronounced it a good home. Rhoda inspected each bare room, looking worried.
“I do like it, but there’s not enough space for Daddy.”
Hannah sat on the floor and pulled Rhoda and Julie into her lap. “Remember, I said Daddy wouldn’t be living with us anymore.”
“But he’ll still come to visit, won’t he?” Rhoda asked.
Hannah had to believe he must. He couldn’t not see his children. But she wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. She hugged the girls more tightly, looking hard into each serious little face.
“I’m your mama and your daddy now. I’ll work long hours, but I’ll always come home. I promise.”
Rhoda looked at her thoughtfully for a long time.
“Can I help you read scripts?” she asked at last.
Hannah laughed. “Yes, my darling, of course you can.”
“Me too, me read too!” Julie cried.
“You can’t read, stupid!” Rhoda shouted.
“None of that now,” Hannah scolded. “You’ll both help me. The three of us will be unstoppable.”
She missed Paul. Missed being in love. Missed feeling like someone was in love with her. But he’d left her the best parts of the both of them. Whatever life he was chasing could never be as good as what he’d left behind.
He was a fool all along, wasn’t he?
It probably wasn’t true, but it wasn’t the worst way to begin to move forward.
* * *
• • •
“Miss Adler! Miss Adler!”
Freddie barreled into her, his arms hard around her waist.
“I knew you’d be back, I knew you’d beat ’em. I told Mr. Bassill so and he was in a right panic, but I knew it, and I was right!”
Mrs. Cotley, attracted by the sight of Nigel’s car driving away, greeted Phoebe with a new respect.
“A strange bit of business, that was, but it’s all sorted now?” She studied Phoebe hard for confirmation.
“Yes, Mrs. Cotley. It’s all sorted now. I’d like to stay as long as you’ll have me.”
It wasn’t entirely true. She harbored dreams of a home with a private bath and a proper kitchen. But as she walked inside the flat Hannah had preserved for her, Freddie chattering away at her side, she looked around with satisfaction. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. For now, that was everything.
* * *
• • •
Freddie knew where she’d find Reg. And there he was, at their table in the London Library canteen, devouring a pile of books on British and American law.
“Contemplating a change of career?” she asked.
He leapt up and threw his arms around her.
“Oi, do you mind? Some of us are trying to relax,” a man complained.
Reg ignored him, smothering Phoebe with kisses.
“I thought I lost you, I thought they’d find a way to keep you there. Your Hannah said that toff was helping, that she
felt confident, but I knew she wasn’t sure. I’ve been looking for whatever I could—I knew there must be a way to help you, though of course I knew you’d find a way yourself. You wouldn’t be you otherwise.”
Phoebe folded her hand in his.
“There’s still one problem. I have to renew my residency and they’re going to take my passport.”
“What if you were married to a British national?” he said slyly. “Wouldn’t that smooth the waters?”
Phoebe tousled his hair. “It’s the wrong reason to get married.”
“What about us being in love? Is that the right reason?” He kissed her forehead. “What about that I don’t want any sort of life without you?”
“Let’s wait,” she said. “Let’s assume we’ll have time to really be sure of each other first.”
“I’m sure of you,” he said. “But I didn’t think it would be any other way. I’m just glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
* * *
• • •
She called Hannah, who gave her a new address and told her to come for dinner.
“Go take care of the residency now,” Hannah advised. “We’ll have either a real celebration or a strategy session.”
That wasn’t as comforting as she would have liked. And she’d heard nothing further from Nigel.
Cassie was on the desk again. Phoebe wondered if there was ever anyone else who worked there.
“Good afternoon.” Cassie’s greeting was impersonal. Phoebe supposed there was no real reason for the woman to remember her.
“I’m here to renew my residency, please,” Phoebe said. “I’m a writer.” She slid over her passport with a shaky hand. Cassie took the passport and went to consult the files.
Phoebe glanced at the door, half expecting the officer who took away the Jamaican woman to come in and beckon to her. She couldn’t imagine where she’d end up.
Cassie came back with a green file and a frown. She studied Phoebe. “I’m supposed to keep this,” she said, holding up Phoebe’s passport. “It’s to be returned to your State Department indefinitely. The Americans seem to have accused you of some pretty funny business.”
“Me and a lot of others,” Phoebe admitted. “Though there’s nothing much funny about it.”
“You seem to be clear with the British government, though,” Cassie went on, reading the file.
“That’s nice to know,” Phoebe said. “Britain’s been good to me.”
Cassie looked over the file, then back at Phoebe. “They give me discretion to make some choices,” she said. “I don’t go a bundle on what seems to have happened here, not when you look perfectly all right.” She produced a little booklet, stamped it, and handed it to Phoebe. It was a residency permit. For ten years.
“This lets you work,” Cassie explained. “I hope you write something very fine.”
Phoebe was speechless. She stared at the little gift, unable to believe it was real. Then she looked up at Cassie.
“Thank—”
Cassie smacked a little bell on the counter, interrupting her.
“Next, please!” she called.
* * *
• • •
Hannah’s new flat was still full of boxes and the smell of fresh paint. But already Phoebe could see it would be a warm and charming family home. Hannah couldn’t make a place any other way.
They propped the residency permit up on the sideboard and drank a toast to it.
“I can’t ever thank you enough,” Phoebe began, but Hannah stopped her.
“We share and share alike, remember? And we help each other out. Anyway, I expect you to get cracking on a cracking new script for me. You’ll need a new name, obviously. How about Mona Bassill?”
Phoebe smiled. “Mona would love that.”
“I thought as much.”
The girls joined them, and Rhoda asked if they could play a game of Robin Hood before supper. As Rhoda put them into position and instructed Julie, Phoebe turned to Hannah.
“The four of us should do something fun this weekend. Go to the Tower of London and tell Rhoda all about beheadings or something?”
Hannah grinned. “She’d be in heaven. What about your Reg, won’t he want to come?”
“Maybe another time,” Phoebe suggested. “Maybe this time it’s just all us ladies.”
She was pretty sure she saw Hannah’s eyes well up, but she blinked and it was gone.
“An excellent idea,” Hannah agreed. “And don’t forget, I’m still your employer. I expect a new Robin Hood script in two weeks. That won’t be a problem, right?”
It certainly wouldn’t.
* * *
• • •
Phoebe decided to walk a little while before getting on the Underground. Tomorrow she would start her new Robin Hood script. Then she would write a play, or perhaps a book—about a wheelchair-bound woman who travels the world. That would be in her own name, a name she was going to keep, even if she got married. She hoped someday it would be returned to her in full by her own country. Stranger things could happen.
It started to rain, and she’d forgotten an umbrella. But she kept on walking.
“Getting a bit wet, love,” a passerby observed. “Shall I call you a cab?”
“I’ve been called worse,” she said. The man startled, and then a slow smile spread over his face. Phoebe grinned back. “Thanks very much. But that’s all right. I think I’ll just walk. I don’t mind the weather.”
And she didn’t.
Author’s Note
There is an inherent difficulty in writing about the Communist “witch hunts” in general and the Hollywood blacklist that began in 1947 and remained in force until 1960 in particular, because although they can be understood in context, they are at heart absurd. It is staggering to think that the United States, emerging victorious and a superpower at the end of World War II, should have been so afraid of the spread of Communism that it would start persecuting its own citizens. It is even more incomprehensible that the hugely powerful and influential film industry would have joined in the efforts of the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and commit itself to purging the industry of anyone suspected of Communist loyalty or sympathy. This was, however, exactly what happened. The path to the blacklist was very much as Hannah and Phoebe describe—the studio heads were terrified of being considered un-American, and a longtime hatred of unions, particularly the Screen Writers Guild, made the persecution of outspoken liberals in Hollywood desirable. Many people have heard of the Hollywood Ten, and some of the other famous men who either were felled by the blacklist or named names. But there were women whose careers were also destroyed by the blacklist, and I wanted to explore their stories.
I came across the story of Hannah Weinstein early in my research, and her daring inspired the plot arc. That she was willing to endanger her career to help others maintain theirs was rare in this period, and she deserves lionization. Though some of the writers who either lived abroad in exile or worked for her from America criticized her for paying only scale wages, it is generally agreed that she provided opportunities when almost no one else was willing to take that risk. For the purposes of my narrative, it worked best to fictionalize much of her life, thus did she become Hannah Wolfson (named for a terrific writing teacher). The real Hannah was already separated from her husband Pete when she came to Europe in 1950, and had three children rather than two. She had a remarkable career long before she ever came to create The Adventures of Robin Hood. She was a successful journalist, worked as a speechwriter for New York mayor Fiorello La Guardia, and worked for the presidential campaign of Henry Wallace. Some sources say she used money from a divorce settlement to help start Sapphire; others say she was in fact sponsored by either left-leaning organizations or the American Communist Party to set up a company that would help struggling
writers. I prefer the idea that it was Hannah’s own brainchild and brilliance.
Likewise, the real Sidney Cole (who was not Scottish, but my version of Sidney felt Scottish from the start) said that Robin Hood came about because Hannah wanted to create a British-themed costume series and had a number of ideas, of which Robin Hood was one. He claims to have encouraged her to pursue Robin Hood, arguing that it would provide a huge amount of scope for stories. Which was true, as the show ran for five years, yielding 143 episodes. Many of the names mentioned (Peter Proud, Terry Bishop, Richard Greene, Bernadette O’Farrell) are real people connected with the show, which was as groundbreaking for its production and cinematography as it was for its stories and secret writers. I did, however, fictionalize quite a lot, starting with the timeline, as the time from conception to sale to shooting would of course take longer than I’ve allowed here, but for the sake of pacing, I shortened the window. Additionally, the show did film at Nettlefold Studios in Surrey, and Hannah did buy woodland to use for better filming, but I’ve fictionalized the layout of the interiors and exteriors.
As inspiring as Hannah was, I knew that my main character was going to be a writer experiencing the shock of being blacklisted and having to suddenly navigate treacherous new terrain. In creating Phoebe, I called to mind the classic “career gals” of old movies, and thought of real pioneers such as Madelyn Pugh Davis, the cowriter of I Love Lucy, who is obliquely mentioned in the narrative. I thought Phoebe was the sort of person one of my heroes, Nora Ephron, would have been if she were a TV writer at the dawn of the industry. It’s also possibly the sort of career woman her screenwriter mother, Phoebe Ephron, was, and so it was only natural to name the character Phoebe.
Many of the harassments Phoebe is subjected to come from real experiences. As outlandish as some of the stories seem, they are true. People knew their phones were being tapped when there was no one at the end of a ringing phone, or if each phone in the house rang at a different time. Most disturbingly, a call might prove to be a recording of a conversation you’d had several weeks ago.
Red Letter Days Page 36
