by Peter Rimmer
“Then we get married now,” said Genevieve the moment she learnt Tinus was going back on active duty; they were arguing in Genevieve’s small flat in Hay Street, close to the theatres.
“But you’re going to America.”
“I won’t if you marry me. I can live on the station at Tangmere.”
“Haven’t you forgotten the third of the three musketeers?”
“I very often think of André. Why I want to be Mrs Oosthuizen before it’s too late. I want something to remember if anything happens to you. If you won’t marry me now, I’m going to America.”
“To Gregory L’Amour, I suppose. They won’t let their precious film star fly in combat. Far too valuable as the hero in a propaganda movie.”
“Propaganda has always been part of wars. I’ll be doing something if I can’t be the wing commander’s wife. We can have a child before it’s too late.”
“And leave him without a father? I said right from the word go when we became engaged we would marry the day the war was over. It’s not fair on you and certainly not on a child. I know what it’s like to go through most of my life without a father. What I would have done without Uncle Harry I don’t know. You and I don’t have brothers. The child would be all on its own with no one to help.”
“The child would have me, Tinus. I’d have the living memory of you. Don’t you want to leave something of you behind on this earth?”
“I’m not going to die! The experienced pilots survive.”
“Then let’s get married.”
“No, Genevieve. If I’m killed you will still have your own life to live. What is so important now is soon forgotten. Ten years down the line with three kids from some famous actor, you won’t even think of Tinus Oosthuizen. I’ll be a vague smile in the back of your memory.”
“Don’t say things like that!”
“Go to America, Genevieve. It’ll be better. You’ll have something to do and think about other than the war.”
“When do you go back to Tangmere?”
“I’m on my way now. Had to change trains in London. When did you hear about the film with Gregory?”
“A week ago. I was going to write.”
“Do you want to go?”
“Not if you marry me.”
“Just look at the time! The taxi’s waiting outside. How do you like the new uniform with three thick rings on my sleeve?”
“Very smart, darling. Now go. I’m about to blub. I’d never forget you with ten children. Please be careful.”
They had fiercely hugged each other, parted and gone their separate ways.
When Tinus reached RAF Tangmere he found her engagement ring with its small diamond in his pocket. She had slipped it in his pocket when she hugged him goodbye.
A week later in his room he read about her going to America in the paper. It was headlines. With a picture of Gregory L’Amour. There was no point in crying over spilt milk. He had to concentrate to survive or the Germans would get him the same way they got André Cloete. He left his room with the photograph of Genevieve by the side of his bed and went across to the officers’ mess. Standing at the small bar he ordered himself a pint of beer from the mess steward. They all had problems. There was no point showing them his. If their leader was an emotional mess, it would affect his pilots.
Keeping a grim smile on his face at the thought of Gregory L’Amour again touching Genevieve, even if it was only on the set of a film, Tinus prepared to live what was left of his life on his own. In his stomach it was empty. Hollow. Everything good in his life had gone. They had to finish the war before going back to normal life with family and kids. ‘Life,’ as Uncle Harry so often said to him, ‘was never easy.’ He had a job to do. Being sentimental about André had never helped. Thinking constantly of Genevieve would not help either. He needed a clean, clear mind. Later, when the war was finally won, they would have their children, children with a father to cherish them through life.
Tinus looked around with a smile on his face. He was again under control.
In the bar was the Polish pilot who had visited Hastings Court with his Polish girlfriend before the war.
“Janusz! I’ll be blowed. Tinus Oosthuizen. You visited my uncle’s house from Poland before the war and again at the start of the war. Have you got the other wings?” Tinus could see Janusz Kowalski was wearing the same uniform with the three thick rings of a wing commander on his sleeve.
“They’ve broken up the Polish Squadron. Not enough of us left. I heard you were coming to join us, Tinus. Just back myself from a spot of leave.”
“How’s Ingrid, I think her name was?”
“Not a word since the war started. Nor of my family. How’ve you been? I still remember that Christmas at Hastings Court in ’39. When I escaped from Poland and joined the Royal Air Force. What were the names of those two girls who played in a band?”
“Fleur and Celia.”
“Are they all right?”
“Never better. When you and I get some leave we’ll go up to London together. Nice to see a familiar face.”
“Yes, it is. Gets less and less I’m afraid. Come and tell me what you’ve been up to apart from fighting the war.”
They were both looking at each other in mild shock. Both were thinking the same thing about the other. They were both thinking the other looked ten years older than the last time they had met at Hastings Court.
When the cameras finally rolled on the worst script Genevieve had ever read, England was a long way away. In the four months she had been in America Genevieve had moved into a small, two-roomed apartment close to Gerry Hollingsworth’s studio. The fact the script was terrible did not matter. It was all about America’s brave soldiers winning the war with the help of the air force and marines. Patriotic Americans would flock to see the movie. The film would make a fortune, which was Gerry Hollingsworth’s sole intention when it came to making them. Everyone was in a hurry to get the movie into the cinemas as soon as possible. Every now and again they tried rewriting the crass dialogue as they went along, Gregory, like Genevieve, cringing at the things they were meant to say from the script.
“Whoever wrote this script must have swallowed the book of clichés,” said Gregory L’Amour after a week. “It’s terrible.”
“There’s a war on,” said Gerry Hollingsworth without taking offence.
“Are you sure you didn’t write this yourself, Gerry?”
“As a matter of fact I did, or some of it. The idea was mine.”
“And half the dialogue.”
“Something like that. I asked Robert St Clair to write a script, and his wife, Freya. Wouldn’t budge out of England. Their boy’s in a good school.”
“Did you send him your idea, Mr Hollingsworth?” asked Genevieve.
“Yes, I did. Please, Genevieve, Gerry. I hate that Mr Hollingsworth.”
“Then he’s still laughing, Mr Hollingsworth.” Getting a rise out of the producer was always fun for Genevieve.
“The public will love it. It’s so rich in sentiment and patriotism.”
“That’s what worries us. Never mind. We’re all doing our bit to win the war even if our contribution isn’t as much as General Montgomery.”
“It’s the Pacific theatre that worries Americans. Why my film is set in the Solomon Islands where our brave forces are launching a major offensive against the Japanese right now. The papers are full of it. Our film will show the public what’s going on through the eyes of an ordinary soldier and a young nurse.”
“We shall persevere. Can’t you find a proper scriptwriter?”
“They’re all in uniform.”
Genevieve being flippant didn’t help. They were all going through the motions numbed by their own pain. She knew that. How could Gerry Hollingsworth concentrate on writing a good script with his son David buried in North Africa? Even Montgomery’s victory at El Alamein in November had not brought Gerry Hollingsworth any consolation. His son was still dead.
His daught
er Rachel’s fiancé, a regular officer with the Royal Navy, Pangbourne College and Dartmouth, had gone down with his destroyer a month after David had died fighting in the desert. Why, in Genevieve’s mind, they should have been married. Now Rachel was thirty and likely to be alone with nothing to look forward to forever. No children to watch growing up. Nothing of importance to do for the rest of her life.
Genevieve had not heard from Tinus since giving him back his ring. She was not even certain if he were alive. Who would tell her? Maybe Uncle Harry, but should Tinus be killed and with Anthony flying raids three times a week over Germany, Harry Brigandshaw would have other things on his mind to worry about. She was cut off. Despite her temporary fame, she was going to die an old maid.
She had tried using the phone but the British Post Office were unable to put personal calls through to RAF Tangmere in time of war. She needed some kind of clearance. Asking Uncle Harry would tell him something was wrong between the two of them after all the excitement when they both told him together they were engaged. Now, that day seemed a lifetime ago. All she could do was hope the war came to an end before he was killed.
It was something she was unable to talk to Gregory about, miserable at his own inability, despite all the bluster, to get into a uniform that did not come from a film studio’s wardrobe. To Gregory, acting the part, as he had told her in one of his depressions, was like a man trying to make love without his balls.
“I’d rather be dead than make this movie, but they won’t let me join up. I tried at the recruiting office downtown. The charade lasted five minutes lined up in the queue. Then someone pointed, ‘Isn’t that Gregory L’Amour.’ Pandemonium broke loose. When I asked the sergeant if I could sign up as a private he laughed in my face. Within a minute some captain was wringing his hands, fawning all over the place and me in particular. Bloody circus. When I said I was Joseph Pott not Gregory L’Amour and showed them my identification papers, that really set them off. Next I was drinking coffee with the colonel in charge of recruitment. The air force had chased me away soon after Pearl Harbor when I first tried to join up. They all just smile at me. Say how good my films are for morale. Now look at this load of shit, Genevieve. If I ever have kids they’ll laugh at me. I’m not even a real person anymore. I envy Tinus more than you can imagine. He’s a real man. No wonder you want to marry him and not me. I’m just an image on a screen that people think is a bloody hero. I’m not real.”
“He won’t marry me either. Not until the war is over. Now I’ve given him back his ring in an attempt to force him to the altar he doesn’t even write.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know I don’t.”
“Gregory, come here and give me a hug. At the end of this stupid film you’ll still be alive. Tinus likely will be dead.”
“Will you marry me then, Genevieve?”
“That’s just horrible.”
“Wasn’t meant to be. Just remember I love you.”
“Poor Gregory. The most eligible bachelor in America. Why can’t you find yourself a girlfriend?”
“There are always girls. I just love you. He’ll be all right. He’s a great pilot. He still loves you. I can only imagine what he’s thinking in combat. It’s better for him not to be thinking what you said in your last letter. You have to concentrate to fly a plane, that much I do know. No distractions. Especially when the Germans are trying to kill you.”
“Come round to my apartment tonight and we’ll try and do something with this script. That last bit hurt.”
“I’m sorry. Truth hurts. I’d love to come round to your apartment. Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself. That’s about all I can do these days with you, Genevieve.”
Genevieve had made the supper. They were seated opposite each other in the small lounge. Outside the open window, seven storeys below, they could hear the traffic. With oil in abundance in America, petrol was not rationed. Except for the patriotism, all the flags, all the brass bands playing the American national anthem, the average person’s life in Los Angeles had seen little change. Only those with loved ones overseas knew what the war was all about. Like Genevieve’s mother back in London.
The letter from Esther had been in the morning mail. Esther hated writing letters, putting her thoughts down on paper in a hand that was barely legible to her daughter. It seemed from the letter Esther’s biggest problem in wartime London was how difficult it was to buy booze. Half the letter was a plea to her daughter to set up a free flow of good gin from America to England. There was no mention of Genevieve’s father in the letter. There never was. Since Merlin had become a hermit in Purbeck Manor, living with his mother and brother Robert, Genevieve doubted the two of them ever saw each other or spoke on the phone. All they had in common to talk about was her. Going to live in America had removed their only reason for communication.
They were reading through Gerry Hollingsworth’s script scene by scene, silently. After each appalling scene they made suggestions. Mostly their suggestions made it worse.
“How do they do it?” asked Gregory. “Like your uncle. All of Holy Knight came out of his head, even if it was based on fact. All those ancestors of his and yours had been dead for centuries. They couldn’t help.”
“Oh, but they did. Uncle Robert said they were in his head talking to him all the time. Even when he wasn’t writing down the book. They followed him everywhere.”
“Well, no one’s following me now.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s gooey and sentimental. There are people who talk like this, we just have to make it sound real when we act the parts.”
“Couldn’t Bruno Kannberg help?”
“Probably. He’s in New York. War correspondent for the Daily Mirror. Given up writing memoirs for film stars, as he frequently likes to call us.”
“Give him a ring. He owes us.”
“Now? What’s the time in New York?”
“Just give him a ring. I brought the number of his apartment. Thought you and I would come unstuck trying to be writers. We’re performing artists, not creative artists.”
“You want him to fly to LA?”
“That’s the idea. It may have all the right goo and sentiment but this dialogue is going to make us a laughing stock. We need help, Genevieve. Without our friendship Bruno wouldn’t be in the States. He’d be in the British Army with the rest of them. Now there’s a man who doesn’t want to fight.”
“And there’s a sensible man. I’ll call him. Do you want him to bring his wife?”
“Why not?”
The leer on Gregory’s face was unmistakable.
“You haven’t! You dog.”
“She wanted to come up in the world.”
“Does Bruno know?”
“Not unless Gillian told him.”
“So you do have a secret girlfriend?”
“A lay, Genevieve. Just a lay.”
“Poor old Bruno.”
“Don’t think he cares a damn. Met his editor out on a visit from London, Arthur Bumley. According to Arthur, Gillian refers to him as Art the Bumley. Arthur doesn’t care what she calls him. Nice guy. Says Bruno’s besotted by the woman and needs his eyes opened. It was Arthur who suggested I make a pass at Gillian. She has something that’s very sexy. The way she looks at you. Goes straight to your balls. Social climber. Wants all the money. She’d love the papers to blast us across the scandal pages.”
“I’ll give Bruno a ring. You dirty, sly old fox. Was she any good?”
“Brilliant. One of the best fucks I’ve had.”
“Good for you.”
“Aren’t you jealous?”
“I’m in love, Greg. People in love only think of each other.”
The telephone was in the bedroom by the side of her bed. Genevieve closed the door and dialled the long distance operator, giving him the number of Bruno Kannberg’s apartment in New York.
“Hold on please.”
Sitting on the bed waiting for the connection Genevieve wondered why she had shut her bedroom door. Was it to keep out Gregory or was she annoyed he was having an affair? Like so many things she had done in her life it was easier to do than be done by. The fact it was Bruno’s wife committing adultery was not part of her disquiet.
“Gillian Kannberg,” came a voice from a long way away.
“It’s Genevieve. Can Bruno come to Los Angeles to help with a script? Greg and I think it’s terrible. We’ve tried to do something about it but neither of us can write. Gerry Hollingsworth wrote the script which should explain the problem. He’s a film producer. Not a script writer.”
“We can fly down for a couple of days. Bruno’s going to cover the war in the Solomon Islands next week so it’s on his way so to speak. Maybe I can stay on and help? I learnt a lot when we wrote your book, Genevieve. Do you remember that two weeks at Hastings Court? Do you ever hear from Harry Brigandshaw? I heard his wife took the kids to South Africa.”
“Would Bruno mind?”
“Of course not. Why should he?”
“Can I speak to him?”
“You don’t have to. We’d love to come down. April in New York is wet and cold. He can tell his London editor he’s on assignment, which he is in a way. Film people are always news.”
“I’ll book you a hotel. Ring me when you know your flight. You’re very helpful, Gillian.”
“We English have to stick together. Isn’t the war terrible? Is Gregory with you by any chance?”
“He is, matter of fact.”
“That is nice. Art the Bumley will never find out. We’ll pay our own expenses in Los Angeles.”
“Of course you will, Gillian.”
