by Judy Nunn
‘Sam!’ the voice once again shrilled, and this time she heard it. She turned to see Nicholas Parslow elbowing his way through weary travellers, much to the annoyance of many, tripping over their luggage, and saying ‘sorry, sorry’, left and right.
‘Nick!’ she said as he finally reached her, pushing his glasses back up his nose in a characteristic gesture which sent a rush of affection flooding through her. ‘Being met by the writer!’ She threw her arms around him. ‘I’m honoured, I thought they’d send a runner. Then I thought they’d forgotten about me and I was going to get a taxi.’
‘Sorry we’re late. Simon’s here too,’ Nick said trying to catch his breath, he wasn’t used to exercise. He wasn’t overweight, if anything he was on the lean side, but he was certainly unfit, with a writer’s pallor and eyes that squinted in the sun’s glare, unaccustomed as they were to natural light. Nick, whom Sam considered one of the nicest men she’d ever known, was always happiest scribbling in a notepad, or hunched over a computer, or in intense discussion with fellow collaborators. ‘He’s parking the car, we mis-timed it a bit,’ he apologised, ‘we thought you’d be longer getting through customs.’
‘Simon Scanlon?’ Sam had never met Simon. Nick nodded. ‘The writer and the director!’ she said. ‘I’m doubly honoured.’ She was surprised and impressed, it was most unexpected.
‘Oh Simon’s dying to meet you. Here, I’ll do that.’ Nick was about to take over the trolley as she guided it out of the taxi queue.
‘No, I’ll manage, I’m used to it now, it’s got a sticky wheel. Just hang on to the front and give it a shove when it starts to turn right. And can you grab that for me before I run over it?’ Sam indicated the heavy woollen overcoat that kept threatening to slide off the suitcases.
‘Well, you certainly won’t need this for a while,’ Nick said, slinging the coat over his shoulder.
‘How are you coping?’ Sam asked as they weaved their way through the crowds and down the street, Nick lending weight to the trolley every time it veered to the right.
‘Fine.’
She halted briefly and gave him a look which said ‘are you sure?’
‘I have my bad days now and then,’ he admitted, ‘but work gets me through. It always has.’
Nick’s devoted partner of ten years had died shortly after the stage run of Red Centre and, as he’d told her at the time, working on the film adaptation of his play had been the only thing which had kept him sane in the months which followed. Shortly after the funeral, Sam had disappeared to London and a new career, and she hadn’t seen Nick in the whole three years since Phillip’s death, although they’d been in regular touch.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you,’ she said.
‘You were,’ he assured her. ‘That’s the beauty of emails. You were more help than you could possibly know.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘It’s good to have you back.’ He kissed her cheek, and they set off once again with the luggage trolley, chatting nineteen to the dozen.
‘Simon was floored by your performance in A Doll’s House,’ Nick said. ‘He told me you inspired him, but then that’s no surprise. I said that you would. I only wish I could have seen it.’
‘Why didn’t he come backstage?’
‘I asked him the same thing. “Why the hell didn’t you meet her?” I said. But he reckons he was buggered after the flight. He’d got in to London that morning, and he was taking off for Sydney the next day. Fair enough, I suppose.’ Nick shrugged. ‘But actually I think he was mulling you over. Not that he didn’t want you for the role – he rang me first thing and told me you were it. But you see, Simon has this most amazing overall perspective.’ Nick had now forgotten about the wayward trolley which Sam was fighting to control. ‘It’s his great talent as a director of course. I bet he was awake half the night piecing everything together with you in the middle, he’s really intense like that. Total focus. When he’s putting the jigsaw bits together he loses sight of absolutely everything around him.’
‘Sounds like somebody else I know,’ Sam said as the trolley teetered on the edge of the kerb.
‘Oh sorry.’ Nick came to the rescue.
They waited by the pedestrian crossing opposite the car park, in full view so that Simon couldn’t miss them. ‘I’ve no idea where he parked the car,’ Nick said, ‘it’s safer to wait until he finds us. What did you think of the script?’
‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’
‘Yes it is, isn’t it?’ Nick’s agreement was in no sense ego-driven. Although a highly talented writer, he was an unassuming man, and when he considered a script the result of a collaborative effort, he was quick to give credit to others. Torpedo Junction was, in his opinion, as much a product of Simon Scanlon’s inventive input as his own creative skills.
‘And I’m over the moon about Sarah Blackston,’ Sam said. ‘She’s the role of a lifetime.’
‘Yes she is, isn’t she!’ Nick beamed enthusiastically. ‘Mamma Black! And she was tailor-made for you, Sam.’
‘You weren’t thinking of me when you wrote her, surely?’
‘Not initially,’ he admitted; Nick was always honest. ‘She’s loosely based on a real character and that’s what inspired me. But as soon as I started writing Mamma Black you were in my mind.’
They would probably have stood on the kerbside chatting for hours if a voice hadn’t interrupted them.
‘Samantha Lindsay. At last!’
Sam turned to see a man whom she instantly recognised. The newspaper and magazine photographs were unkind, she thought. Big-boned, craggy-faced, and beaky, he certainly resembled a pterodactyl, just as the newspapers portrayed, but he emanated such a warmth and energy that the overall impression was immensely attractive.
‘Simon,’ she said before Nick could introduce them, but then Simon Scanlon already had his hand outstretched. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come to the airport. I’m a bit overwhelmed, I have to admit.’
‘Couldn’t wait.’ His handshake was bone crushing. ‘Thought you were great in A Doll’s House. Dying to have a chat. Do you need to crash right away or could you handle a coffee?’ Simon often spoke in shorthand and always got straight to the point.
‘Don’t be pushy,’ Nick protested, ‘she’s probably exhausted, it’s a hell of a long flight.’
‘Have you ever travelled first class?’ Sam laughed. ‘I’ve been asleep in a full-length bed for the past seven hours. Thanks for that, by the way,’ she said to Simon.
‘Don’t thank me, thank Mammoth. Terrible waste of production money, in my opinion. Business class is perfectly adequate.’ His voice was a bark but his grin was amiable, and Sam found him disarming, in an alarming sort of way. ‘Let’s make it your place, Nick.’
‘She might want to go to the hotel first,’ Nick said protectively, aware that Simon could be a bit much on first meeting, particularly with those he’d decided he liked. With those he didn’t, he was dismissive, choosing simply to ignore them. ‘And there’s such a thing as body clocks and jet lag, you know, even if a person has slept for seven hours.’
‘I can handle the body clock and the jet lag,’ Sam said, ‘but I’d like to dump my gear at the hotel and check in first, if that’s all right. Could you give me an hour?’ she asked apologetically.
‘We’ll drive you there and wait outside.’ Simon obviously wasn’t going to let her out of his sight any longer than was absolutely necessary.
Sam adored her apartment at the Quay Grand. She was personally escorted to the eleventh floor by the hotel manager, who gave her a guided tour, an operational rundown of the high-tech appliances and equipment, and then tactfully left her to ‘settle in’.
Complete with kitchen surfaces of black marble, and a massive spa in the master bedroom’s en suite, the place was even more luxurious than Reg had promised, but to Sam, far outweighing the luxury was the spectacular view of Sydney Harbour.
She stepped out onto the balcony. Towering far
to her right was the coat hanger of the Bridge, the laughing mouth of Luna Park nestled cheekily beneath it. Directly below her was the ever busy ferry terminal of Circular Quay, and the broad path, teeming with tourists and sightseers, which led around the point to the Opera House. A gleaming white ocean liner was docked at the far side of the quay and the harbour itself was a kaleidoscope of colour and action. Smartly trimmed green and yellow ferries chugged back and forth; huge catamarans, the less traditional but speedier form of public transport, zoomed effortlessly across the blue water’s surface; pleasure craft milled idly about; and dodging and weaving amongst them all like frantic messenger boys on bicycles were the water taxis. I could live on this balcony, Sam thought.
Then the porter arrived with her luggage and there was no longer any excuse to drink in the view. Hurriedly, she unpacked her essentials, cleaning her teeth and washing her face, all the while guiltily aware that Simon and Nick were sitting in the car out the front.
Simon, having been assured that Sam was safely booked in to the hotel, had turned down her offer to come up to the apartment and had even refused to sit comfortably in the foyer.
‘We’ll wait in the car,’ he’d told her, ‘you’ll be quicker that way.’
‘He’s a bugger, isn’t he?’ Nick had said. ‘Don’t let him bully you, Sam, take your time.’
But Sam had been bullied nonetheless. She would have loved to have showered and changed, but she didn’t dare. She brushed her hair and rubbed some moisturiser into her face; travelling first class didn’t stop your skin drying out, she thought. A quick spray of the Givenchy she’d bought at the duty free and twenty minutes later, script under her arm, she strode through the foyer to the waiting car.
Nick lived in Surry Hills. A huge gutted warehouse with steps leading to a loft which housed a bedroom and an extensive library.
Downstairs, every available piece of wall space was taken up by whiteboards scrawled with notes in different coloured markers, and corkboards pinned with papers and pictures. There were benches with computers and printers and fax machines, but predominant was a huge wooden table strewn with more papers and literature. Nick did much of his work by hand. ‘I like paper,’ he maintained. ‘It’s tactile and trustworthy.’
A potbelly stove was up one end of the vast room, surrounded by old armchairs and sofas, but for the most part people sat around the wooden table on a miscellany of ancient upright chairs garnered from second-hand shops. Despite the fact that Nick now earned top money, he liked to hang on to the past. ‘Why change a good thing?’ he’d say.
Light streamed through large leadlight windows upon the gloriously creative chaos, and Sam, who had often been to Nick’s home in bygone years, felt moved, remembering that half of this huge open space had once been taken up by Phillip’s easels and sculptures.
She glanced at Nick who gave a gentle smile of recognition, knowing exactly what she was thinking.
‘Down to business.’ Simon sat at the table whilst Nick prepared a plunger of coffee in the open kitchen alcove nearby. ‘I presume you’ve looked over the schedule.’
‘Only briefly,’ she admitted, sitting opposite him. ‘I know we’re shooting the opening scenes in the English house here at Fox Studios, and then we go on location to Vanuatu. That’s great, isn’t it?’ Sam was excited at the prospect of Vanuatu, she’d never been there before. ‘I thought we were shooting in far north Queensland …’
‘No, no, we’re going to where it all really happened,’ Simon interrupted brusquely, ‘but I don’t want you to think about that now. I want you to concentrate purely on the opening scenes.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, pterodactyl eyes gleaming with excitement, and, like many before her, Sam found herself mesmerised.
‘Sarah is two different people,’ he said. ‘I want you to put Sarah Blackston out of your mind completely. She is Sarah Huxley, and she’s locked in the claustrophobic house of her father. It must be beyond all possibility to envisage this colourless creature adventuring to Vanuatu and becoming Mamma Black. Her destiny is locked in this mausoleum of a house, as her father had always predicted it would be. She will look after him until he dies and then she’ll live on, an old maid with money but no-one to love her.’
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together aware that he’d captivated her. He’d told her nothing she hadn’t gleaned from the script, but his intensity was like an electrical charge.
‘Her father, Clifford, calls her a mouse, and she is,’ he continued. ‘We must see no strength in her until the final two scenes in the house. It’s only then that we realise she was never really a mouse at all. She was strong from the very beginning, it was only her father’s derision that made her a mouse.’
‘Oh yes, I agree with that,’ Sam said vehemently. ‘It’s right there on the page. The defiance of her father, the farewell scene, it’s all there.’ She glanced at Nick. Mesmeric Simon Scanlon may be, she thought, but let’s give the writer his due. Nick, however, smiled benignly as he brought the plunger of coffee to the table. He loved seeing Simon at work with actors, the man was inspirational.
‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ Simon agreed with a touch of impatience. ‘Now, let’s concentrate on the set for a minute, the set’s very important. Where’s the sugar, Nick?’ He started pouring himself a cup of coffee. He really was an arrogant man, Sam thought, but she couldn’t help herself, she was riveted.
‘We could have shot the opening and closing scenes on location in England you know, but I wanted a set. Mammoth thought I was mad; they’ve got a Titanic budget and they thought I was trying to cut corners. Stupid bastards. Typical Hollywood. They shower you with money when it’s not needed, and cut you back when it is.’
Nick joined them at the table with the sugar and milk, pouring a cup of coffee for Sam and giving her a reassuring wink.
‘There’ll be no exterior footage shot in England,’ Simon continued. ‘We never see the outside of the house, just the claustrophobic interior, mirroring the influence of the father. The set will work very effectively to our advantage.’ He swigged down his coffee. He always drank it black and boiling hot, with three sugars. ‘That’s originally how I wanted to finish the film, Sarah alone in the house once more with nothing but memories, her American lover dead, the mausoleum closing about her. But of course the producers demanded a happy ending, so soldier boy returns having survived the POW camp. Typical.’
His tone was scathing, and Sam again found his contempt an insult to Nick’s work. ‘I think the final scene where Sarah and her lover are reunited is beautifully written,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s very understated and moving.’
‘Well, of course it is, Nick’s a genius. Worked his tits off trying to lend a bit of magic to something so trite.’
‘And he succeeded.’ There was a definite touch of ice to Sam’s tone now. Strange how quickly one could go off Simon Scanlon, she thought.
Nick himself was grinning happily at the two of them. Dear Sam, he thought, being so protective, but in fact he never found Simon insulting. The two of them worked together far too well to offend each other, even when they disagreed. He didn’t bother saying so, though; Sam would get Simon’s measure soon enough. She was a perceptive and creative young woman, and, overwhelming though he might be, Simon Scanlon was no dictator, he welcomed artistic input from actors. He and Sam would make a formidable team.
‘The middle-class setting was Simon’s idea,’ Nick said, in order to put Sam at her ease and also to assure her of the egalitarian working relationship he and Simon shared. ‘I thought the Victorian father despising his daughter because she didn’t measure up to his dead wife was a bit too much like The Heiress myself. I initially wanted to make Sarah working class, but Simon was actually …’
‘The Heiress hardly went off to the New Hebrides to become a heroine to the natives,’ Simon scoffed.
‘… he was actually quite right,’ Nick continued, ignoring him completely, ‘it gave Sarah a far
greater strength of character. A young woman exchanging a comfortable middle-class existence for a remote island in the South Pacific, a pretty brave move in those days.’
Sam was momentarily confused. ‘I thought you said Sarah Blackston was based on a real character?’
‘No, I said “Mamma Black” was based on a real character. Very loosely. She was known as Mamma Tack actually, and I’ve no idea who she was, but the stories abound in Vanuatu –’
‘Hardly relevant,’ Simon interrupted. ‘Back to business. Now about the father …’
He was possibly one of the rudest men she’d met, Sam thought, wondering why Nick was so unaffected, but then Nick had always been too nice for his own good.
‘… I really wanted to check this out with you first,’ Simon continued. ‘I don’t like casting actors who might not get on. Harmony amongst the cast. Most important. But your agent said you weren’t to be contacted at Fareham. He’s very protective, your Reginald Harcourt.’
What on earth was he talking about? Sam wondered, bewildered by his sudden change of mood. No longer overbearing, he seemed to be seeking her approval.
‘It only hit me several weeks after I got back from London,’ he went on. ‘We’d screen-tested for the father, but I hadn’t found what I was after. I wanted to cast an Australian actor of course, but I couldn’t find the true … I don’t know …’ he was uncharacteristically fumbling for the right words ‘… the innate Victorian pomposity that comes from an ingrained class system.’
Sam was now completely bemused. Simon Scanlon was not only one of the rudest, but one of the most contradictory men she’d met. Barking orders in shorthand one moment, then obscurely rambling on the next. She wished he’d get to the point.
