Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I’ll go where the work is, of course,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to live in Britain when I can.’ She grinned at Reg. ‘I’ve bought a house here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Nigel feigned interest. ‘Where?’

  ‘Fareham.’

  ‘Fareham!’ His surprise pleased her. Had he expected her to say Chelsea or South Kensington? ‘Why on earth Fareham? It’s miles from anywhere.’

  ‘It’s where I did my first panto. Well my only panto actually,’ she corrected herself. ‘Cinderella at Ferneham Hall, Fareham, 1994.’

  Nigel winced. The traditional Christmas family pantomime was hardly something to boast of, and certainly not a production in a backwater like Fareham. Really, the girl was impossible.

  Sam looked at Reg. She had no intention of cloaking her humble beginnings in secrecy and she couldn’t give a damn if others wished that she would. But she didn’t want to offend Reg. Reg had been responsible for her success and, in the early days, he’d suggested she neglect to mention her lack of formal training to the press. Surprisingly enough, Reginald Harcourt gave an encouraging nod.

  ‘It was the first time I’d ever worked in the theatre,’ Sam said, ‘although the producers didn’t know it. Not that they would have cared, I suppose. I was only hired because of the soapie.’

  Nigel looked incredulously at Reginald. He’d known that Samantha Lindsay had started out as a teenager in an Aussie soap, but surely they didn’t want to go in that direction?

  Reginald made his one and only contribution to the interview. ‘I think it’s time Sam’s background was discussed. It makes her different,’ he suggested mildly. ‘I think readers would find it interesting.’

  Readers maybe, Nigel thought, but hardly prospective producers and casting agents. Oh well, if the girl wanted to hang herself, and if he had the agent’s permission, he was only too happy to oblige.

  ‘How fascinating,’ he said as he scribbled in his pad.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samantha Lindsay had grown up in Perth. ‘Perth, Western Australia, not Perth, Scotland’, she was wont to say, having recognised the need for clarification the first day she set foot on British soil.

  She’d known she wanted to act from the age of ten but her mother had taken little notice. Sam had been permitted weekly singing and dancing classes at a local amateur theatre because several of her friends went, but she was expected to outgrow her childhood fantasies and attend university. The classes only fed Sam’s ambition and, by the time she was sixteen, she was secretly, and impatiently, awaiting the day when she could audition for drama school. She’d made enquiries and seventeen was the minimal age requirement for entry to the WA Academy of Performing Arts, although eighteen was preferable, she was told. Then, in mid-February, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, she read an advertisement in the West Australian: ‘AUDITIONS for “Families and Friends”. Males and females 14–15 years old.’

  Sam, who looked young for her age, put her hair in pigtails, wore her old school uniform to the audition and got the job.

  ‘Families and Friends’ was a highly successful Australian soap. It had been running for eight years and had sold to over twenty countries worldwide. The only drawback was, it was shot in Sydney. There was little her parents could do, Sam was ‘going East’ and nobody was going to stop her. It broke her mother’s heart.

  The publicity machine was set in motion and Samantha Lindsay, like many a teenager before her and after, became a household name, not only in Australia, but in Britain where the series was particularly popular. It shocked her when, eighteen months later, the channel didn’t pick up the option on her contract. Her agent knew why.

  ‘You’re too old now, Sam,’ Barbara said. Barb Bradley was a no-nonsense woman who believed in calling a spade a spade. ‘You’re not a kid any more, pet, you’re past your use-by date.’ It was true that in the past eighteen months Sam had blossomed from a pretty, but gawky, schoolgirl into a sensual young woman, and since ‘Families and Friends’ was aimed at a youthful market, few teenagers found themselves re-contracted once their transition to adulthood became evident.

  ‘Don’t take it personally,’ Barb advised her, although she knew it was difficult for the poor kid not to. Barbara Bradley had had a number of teenage clients spat out by the system and it cut them up every time. ‘You’ve got the panto to look forward to, pet.’ She was glad she’d organised the panto for the Christmas production break, now at least Sam had something to look forward to. ‘When you come back we’ll concentrate on adult roles.’

  The pantomime was of the lower-budget variety and was to be staged at a venue called, unexcitingly, Ferneham Hall, in the obscure town of Fareham, none of which sounded frightfully thrilling to Barbara, but she’d dealt with the producers before and found them honest enough.

  The booking of young Aussie soap stars for the British Christmas pantomime season had become a thriving business, particularly if one cracked the big-budget productions, but Barb hadn’t recommended Sam to the bigger producers. The girl was untrained, she’d never worked in the theatre, and Barb had been unwilling to risk her own reputation.

  ‘You can sing and dance, can’t you?’ she’d asked a little anxiously when the Fareham job had come up.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sam had assured her confidently, and Barb hadn’t pushed any further. It didn’t really matter anyway: who’d see her in Fareham? And Vermont Productions probably didn’t care, they only wanted the face from the telly.

  Ferneham Hall, Fareham, might have held no thrill for Barbara, but it did for Sam. She was going to England! It was 1994, she was eighteen years old, and she was going to work in the theatre! She might as well have been booked into the London Palladium.

  And she wasn’t disappointed from the minute she arrived. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had been a little deflated when the company manager picked her up at Heathrow Airport on a freezing morning in early December and she discovered they were driving direct to Fareham. ‘Don’t I get to see London?’ she’d asked. Pete Harris, a rather taciturn man in his mid-thirties with a mild London accent, had given a short bark of a laugh as he headed south on the motorway. He thought she was joking and when he realised she wasn’t, he wondered whether he had a true innocent on his hands or whether she was one of those untalented, arrogant, young Aussie soap stars who demanded special treatment. He’d met a number of them in the five years he’d been working for Vermont Productions. ‘London’s a bit out of the way,’ he said brusquely.

  Sam was a little deflated by the motorway too. Where was rural England? She realised that perhaps she’d been naive. What had she expected? The Wind in the Willows? This never-ending ribbon of concrete no doubt led to an industrial jungle where she was to be trapped for two whole months. Flight fatigue was setting in – she’d been warned about that – Pete was untalkative, and she started to feel vulnerable and lonely. But when they turned off the motorway and wound their way through the southern slopes, things suddenly changed. She was enchanted. The English countryside was every bit as magical as she’d imagined: copses of beech trees, elegant in their winter nakedness, briar hedges, streams forded by picturesque bridges, huge oak trees and yews. Then up the hill to Fareham. Her first view of St Peter’s and St Paul’s Church, its ancient stone tower standing guard over the tombstones which dotted its wooded gardens. Then into the heart of the township: houses tall and imposing with knapped flintstone walls, others tiny with garrets and small bay windows, Sam had never seen architecture like it. A history she’d never known unfolded before her eyes.

  ‘What a beautiful place,’ she said, awestruck, as Pete did a quick lap around the town to give her the layout. He felt relieved. Thank God, she’s an innocent, he thought, and he turned off Osborn Road into the broad gravel driveway of Chisolm House.

  Although Chisolm House had been converted into bed and breakfast lodgings, it bore all the appearance of the grand private residence it had once been. A set of six large bay windows, three downstairs, three
upstairs, looked out over a magnificent and well-maintained front garden, complete with manicured lawn and a fountain. The main entrance, to the right side of the house and directly off the gravel driveway, was guarded by two stone lions and an impressive conifer in an earthenware tub.

  ‘Hello there, Pete.’ A large, matronly woman in her fifties stood at the door as the car pulled up. She’d obviously been expecting them.

  ‘Hi, Mrs M,’ Pete said, heaving the suitcase out of the boot. ‘This is Samantha Lindsay. Samantha, Mrs M.’ He dumped the case on the steps. ‘Welcome to Fareham, Samantha, see you in two days,’ he added and took off at the rate of knots. He had a million things to do at the theatre and he’d hated having to interrupt his day to pick up the little Aussie soap star.

  Pete Harris had reversed his personal opinion. Samantha Lindsay was obviously a nice girl, and even better looking in the flesh than on TV, but his professional suspicions remained intact. He’d be willing to bet she could neither sing nor dance. None of them could. These kids might draw the crowds but they knew nothing about panto.

  ‘Come in to the kitchen, dear, you’ll want a cup of tea.’ Before Sam could protest, Martha Montgomery, known to all as Mrs M, picked up the heavy suitcase, and bustled on ahead through the hallway. ‘Such a long way to travel, you must be exhausted.’

  Sam followed the woman as she crossed through the small entrance hall lined with coat stands and hat pegs. Ahead was a broad wooden staircase leading to the upper floor, but Mrs M turned a sharp right and walked down several steps to the kitchen. Before following her further, Sam glanced briefly through the open double doors to the left of the staircase and glimpsed a magnificent drawing room. High ceilings, ornate furniture, a crystal chandelier brilliantly capturing the light from the bay windows overlooking the garden.

  ‘I don’t know how you young things do it, really I don’t, I hate air travel at the best of times, but all that way from Australia! Dear me!’

  Sam obediently followed the voice and walked down the steps into a kitchen the size of a small ballroom. Mrs M had already deposited the suitcase by the massive wooden table in the centre of the room, and was busying herself at the equally massive wooden bench which looked out the side windows onto the driveway. Through the open door to the left was a narrow staircase which Mrs M explained led to the upstairs back rooms that had once been servants’ quarters. Pots and pans and utensils hung from wooden pegs everywhere and, despite the size of the place, it was warm and cosy.

  ‘You’ll want breakfast, I’m sure,’ Mrs M said, ‘you must be starving.’

  ‘No, thank you. I ate on the plane.’

  ‘Oh rubbish, they don’t serve enough to feed a sparrow on aeroplanes, and you look like you could do with some feeding up.’

  Was the woman for real? Sam wondered. She seemed like a caricature. Fat and hearty, an incessant smile, eyes that crinkled in a jolly face, a gap between her two front teeth, and the thickest Hampshire hog accent imaginable. Sam was already practising, in her head, the oblique vowel sounds, the cadences, the thickly sounded ‘r’s, but she was sure if she used that accent on stage she’d be accused of ‘going over the top’.

  ‘Now you sit down, Samantha, and I’ll cook you some eggs.’

  ‘No really, Mrs M.’ Sam had an insane desire to laugh, even the name seemed part of the caricature. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing. And please call me Sam, I always think people are cross with me if they call me Samantha,’ she found herself rattling on, ‘my mum used to call me Samantha when she was riled.’

  Riled, how quaint, Martha Montgomery thought, but the girl was Australian after all. And she looked so tired. She must be lonely too, so far from home.

  ‘Sam it is then,’ she said. ‘Here’s your tea. Drink it up and then we’ll settle you in. You do look tired, dear. And it’s little wonder.’

  Sam didn’t want to laugh any more. She wanted to cry. The woman’s kindness made her suddenly aware that she was exhausted and lonely and very far from home. And Mrs M wasn’t a caricature at all. Mrs M was warm and real and Sam wanted to hug her. She blinked away the quick, burning threat of tears and accepted the cup of tea. Flight fatigue, that’s what it was, how embarrassing.

  Poor little thing, Martha Montgomery thought. So young too. ‘How old are you, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Eighteen,’ Sam replied, looking out the windows. Damn it, she told herself, don’t burst into tears. She felt ridiculous. ‘I’ll be nineteen in February,’ she added, as if that gave her extra status.

  ‘So where do you come from, Sam? What part of Australia?’ Mrs M brought the pot to the table and sat. She concentrated on the cup as she poured her own tea, knowing that the girl was fighting hard not to cry.

  ‘Perth,’ Sam said.

  ‘Perth?’ Mrs M looked up, bewildered.

  ‘Perth, Western Australia.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ Mrs M gave a hearty laugh. ‘I thought for a minute you meant Perth, Scotland. Silly me.’

  ‘I live in Sydney now, though. That’s where they shoot “Families and Friends”.’

  Sam quickly recovered from her bout of self-pity and they spent a pleasant twenty minutes chatting. It appeared that Mrs M didn’t watch ‘Families and Friends’.

  ‘I don’t really watch much telly at all,’ she said apologetically. ‘I prefer a good book myself, but I believe it’s a very popular show.’

  Sam was rather thankful. She’d been overwhelmed by the reception she’d received from British travellers during the flight, and at Heathrow, when she’d arrived, she’d been instantly recognised, besieged for her autograph and inundated with questions about the series. Relieved to be able to talk of something other than ‘Families and Friends’, she asked about Chisolm House.

  ‘It was built in the 1850s,’ Mrs M said, clearly a full book on Chisolm House. ‘A developer called Charles Osborn was responsible for most of the Victorian town-houses along this road. He was in it for the money of course, but he certainly had an eye for architecture; they’re in different styles and quite lovely, each and every one. The Chisolms bought the place in 1918. They had only one daughter and Chisolm House was left to her. Would you like another cup?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Old Miss Chisolm had a stroke three years ago,’ Mrs M went on to explain as she poured the tea from the pot with its hand-knitted cosy. ‘She’d lived here alone for ages – well, apart from me and the maid and the gardener, that is. She has no family left to speak of, just some distant relatives who can’t wait to get their hands on the house. Poor dear, a tragic life.’

  Martha Montgomery had been Phoebe Chisolm’s housekeeper and cook for five years before the old woman’s stroke, and had been retained as manager when the place had been converted to bed and breakfast accommodation.

  ‘I often think she’d like to see young people enjoying the house,’ Mrs M said. ‘She’s in a nursing home in Southampton now and I visit her regularly. She always knows me and we sit outside and chat over a cup of tea. She seems comfortable and healthy enough, but she’s not altogether “with it”, poor thing, her mind wanders a lot.’

  When they’d finished their tea Mrs M stood and picked up the suitcase. ‘We’d best get you settled in now, you’ll be wanting to unpack.’

  ‘Please let me take that.’

  ‘All right, dear.’ Mrs M relinquished her hold on the suitcase and set off for the door at the rear of the kitchen, talking all the while. ‘I’m putting you into the self-contained flat,’ she said, ‘you’ll be more comfy there. We’ve had actors here for the past two pantos at Ferneham Hall and they always want the flat. It’s probably best for all really, it means they don’t disrupt the household when they come home late.’

  She led the way through a laundry and then a small enclosed back porch where mackintoshes hung on pegs and Wellington boots and sandshoes were lined up on the floor. ‘The gardener keeps his things here,’ she explained, ‘and I have a maid come in daily to service the rooms and
do the laundry.’

  Then they were out the back door in a pebbled courtyard surrounded by trellises of climbing roses with an arch in the centre. It was very attractive, Sam thought.

  Mrs M still didn’t draw breath as she continued through the arch. ‘The flat has all the mod cons, if you want to look after yourself, dear,’ she said, ‘but you’re more than welcome to join the other guests for breakfast in the dining room. Not that we have many guests at the moment and they tend to keep rather much to themselves, so I don’t think you’ll find yourself bothered.’ She finally came to a halt and Sam plonked the suitcase down gratefully.

  They were standing in the gravelled rear of the property. To the right, the side driveway culminated in twin garages and, directly ahead, several cars sat in marked parking bays. To the left was a quaint two-storey building of sandstone with a slate-tiled roof and multi-paned glass windows. It stood like a proud baby sister to the big grand house, boasting its own impressive and predominant feature – a huge central arch with two heavy wooden doors.

  ‘It used to be the stables,’ Mrs M announced. ‘The Chisolms had it converted in the forties.’ She crossed to the small door at the left side of the building and unlocked it. ‘The big doors are only for show,’ she explained to Sam, who’d picked up the suitcase and followed her, ‘they’re bricked up on the inside. Miss Chisolm told me that she wouldn’t let her father get rid of them, she’d loved playing in the old stables as a girl. Come along in, dear.’

  Sam hefted the suitcase inside and looked about at the open-plan living space with its sandstone walls and heavy timber beams.

  ‘This was the tack room,’ Mrs M indicated the kitchen, separated by an island bench, ‘and over here,’ she crossed to the dining and lounge room area, ‘this was the actual stables, four of them, I believe, although the Chisolms themselves never kept horses. Come and I’ll show you upstairs.’