The clapper boy, as he was called (though he was not a boy at all, but a man called Bernard who was at least forty), was the clapperboard’s master. As soon as the camera started rolling, he put the board in front of the lens and “clapped” the hinged part down to signify that the scene was being filmed. Only then did David call “Action!” and the filming properly began. After each scene, Bernard bore the clapperboard away with a proprietary action, rubbed off the scene number, and chalked on the next with a piece of chalk he wore on a thin chain around his neck. Sometimes he would have to wait a long time before he could do this, but it was his job and no one else’s. Ever.
I was thrilled that at last I understood. When Frank threw his leg over his bicycle or tossed a bale of hay onto the stack or clattered down the stairs in his nailed boots, he would shout, “Lights, camera, action!” Now, I could tell him exactly how those three elements combined to film the scene. My next letter to him would be a long one.
As I set this down all these months later, it seems as banal and repetitive as Aidan considered the business of making a film. But then it was the most exciting thing imaginable. That moment when the clapperboard went “smack!” and I put my actress’s face on was like an alarm clock going off. “Get up, Clara Hope,” it said, “and do what – astonishingly – you get paid to do!”
Furthermore, to my inexpressible relief, Harry’s call of “Rolling!” seemed to work magic on Aidan. He kept his head down while Bernard slapped the clapperboard shut. But then his head came up, and a miracle took place.
He began to act.
There was a light in his face that had not been there in rehearsals; a quickness, as if his internal battery had been switched on. Not only did he not improvise or giggle, he played the part with such professionalism that I forgot he was Aidan and started to believe he was de Montford. It was suddenly much easier to be Eloise.
“Marvellous! Perfect!” exclaimed David when the take was over. He came towards me, applauding, his face pink with excitement. “Clara!” His voice was almost a shriek. “That was absolutely wonderful. You’re a natural, just like I said.” I was sitting down; he put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way. “Now, why did you not show us this in rehearsal? I’ve been worried sick that you wouldn’t do!”
“So have I,” I confessed. “But … I don’t know, it just felt so different to know it’s a real performance that people are actually going to see.”
I did not add that the sudden attention that Aidan had brought to his own performance had given mine life. David squeezed my shoulder. “We’re going to do another take, and we don’t know yet which we’ll use, so you’ve got to give it everything this time as well, all right?”
I nodded, happy in the expectation that Aidan would also “give it everything”. It was his ability to do this, I realized, that must show in screen tests and get him parts. “Natural” or not, I must seem to Aidan Tobias an amateur who had got the role by means of mere luck. In contrast, he was an actor of rare ability, much more deserving of praise than I. Yet David had pointedly, publicly ignored him.
Robert Palliser, a middle-aged actor who was playing de Montfort’s uncle, was always very kind to me. Off-screen he wore thick glasses, and was very amiable, like a real uncle. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked me that day at the first break. “You’re so young, you must be absolutely floored by all this.”
“Yes, I am,” I confessed. Then, so as not to seem too idiotic, I added, “Well, a bit.”
“Much of what goes on must seem unfathomable.”
“It does, rather,” I said. “Though I’ve managed to find out that Harry is the cinematographer, and Kitty is the continuity girl, and Alfie is one of the gropes.”
Robert Palliser’s small pink mouth fell open.
“Oh! Sorry, I mean grips. The boys who shift things around.”
“Ah.” The pink mouth expanded in a surprisingly pleasant smile. “Well, you’ve done better than I did when I first started in this business. I wouldn’t say boo to a goose.” He considered. “But then, I was a mere boy, quite untried. You seem very poised for one so young.”
“Aidan says I’m plucky.”
He looked at me from under lowered eyelashes, his expression unreadable. “Well, Aidan has his own view of the world, and that’s a fact. Tell me, is your mother with you?”
“No. She is needed at home. She … er … helps my father in his work.” I looked at him, feeling uncertain. “Eighteen is old enough to be by oneself, though, don’t you think?”
“Of course.” He patted my hand. “And naturally you’ll see your family soon, will you not? Why not invite them to tour the studios?”
I could not answer. Surprise at his suggestion and a sudden closing of my throat prevented me.
“You are missing them, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
Swallowing, I nodded. “My brother – his name’s Frank – he’d love to come here,” I continued, but then I had to stop again. An inexplicable wave of longing to be back in Haverth had buried me. I strove to compose myself. “Um … I write to them, and they write to me,” I told him. “That will have to do for now, I think.”
“Dear girl!” exclaimed Robert. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Please don’t concern yourself,” I said, sniffing a little. “I am quite all right.”
At that moment the actor playing the revolutionary leader passed. Robert caught his sleeve. “Ah, Godfrey! Come and join me and the delightful Clara Hope, our young star.”
Godfrey Claymore, a rangy Scot with a face more aristocratic than a revolutionary leader perhaps ought to have, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Hello, darling,” he said, which flattered me until I discovered that this was what he called everyone, even the men. “In at the deep end? Robbie here will always pull you out when you need it, you know. He’s wonderful with the ladies.” He and Robert exchanged a look. “And talking of ladies,” continued Godfrey, “be grateful, Clara darling, you’re not contending with La Vincenza quite yet.” He sucked in air through his teeth. “Even Robbie can’t deal with her!”
I was still trying to recover and did not reply. Godfrey scrutinized me for a moment, then said, “Toodle-oo!”, waved happily and melted away. Robert Palliser giggled. “My dear, old Godfrey may be a bit of a gossip, but he’s quite right. If you feel all at sea, you only have to ask and we’ll haul you out.” He gestured with the script he held. “Now, to work. We’re on next. Do you want to go through this?”
“Aidan, for the last time!”
It was the end of another long day of rehearsals. David had spent the morning in a meeting with the people he called his “money men”. He had returned to the set at lunchtime, his normally open expression obscured by anxiety, and had been grumpy all afternoon. By the time six o’clock came we were all exhausted. Aidan, perhaps hoping to lift the mood, had begun to ignore the script and improvise, and David had lost patience. “Are you intent upon sabotaging this film entirely?” he demanded. “Or are you merely trying to stop us finishing it on time?”
Aidan was kneeling on the floor. We were rehearsing the scene where he declares his love for Eloise, who was sitting on a kitchen chair with Maria adjusting her skirts. He stood up wearily and shrugged. “Do you want me to tell you how little I care?”
David’s lips got very thin. “I’m warning you…”
But Aidan spoke over him. “What are you warning me? That filming will run over schedule and cost more than you have told those money-grabbing self-abusers you call your investors? That is your concern, dear David, not mine.”
I did not know what a self-abuser was, but judging by David’s reaction, it was a not inconsiderable insult to the money men. He stared at Aidan, and the muscles in his face seemed to loosen, as if he was no longer controlling them. His voice was cold. “And what is your concern, dear Aidan?”
Aidan strolled across the floor to the area behind the cameras, where his jacket was hanging over the back of a chair. From one o
f its pockets he took a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. Knowing that smoking was forbidden on the set, I watched in trepidation. Unhurried, Aidan lit up and took the first puff with satisfaction. “My concern,” he announced to the silent, waiting studio, “is this. Where am I going to get drunk tonight, and who is going to join me? Dennis, how about you? Shall we descend upon Claridges, or the Café Royal, or somewhere altogether more delicious, in Soho perhaps, where the ponces go?”
I did not know what a ponce was either, but the word had an instant effect on the colour of Dennis’s complexion. He tried to speak, but David, whose expression was a mixture of exasperation and determination, wouldn’t let him. “Don’t demean yourself, Dennis,” he said wearily. Then, unexpectedly, he turned to me. “Clara, my dear, allow me to apologize for Aidan’s unpleasant behaviour. But his contract to complete this picture was drawn up by very competent lawyers, as was yours. I’m afraid that unless something quite untoward happens, you must see the adventures of Charles and Eloise out together till the very end.”
I did not know how to answer. I stole a look at Aidan, who gave me a bemused smile, half-obscured by cigarette smoke. I decided the smile was insolent and did not return it. I had no wish to smile at him; in fact, I wished the lawyers had not been so competent. My life would be a great deal easier if I did not have to contend with Aidan every day! For him to be sacked, how much more “untoward” would his behaviour have to be than what we had witnessed tonight?
David raised his voice. “Very well, everyone,” he announced wearily. “Thank you very much. Seven o’clock start tomorrow, as usual.”
We dispersed. I submitted to Maria’s undressing and re-dressing like a doll, my mind busy. I slathered cold cream over my face and neck and removed my make-up, then reapplied foundation, lipstick and eyeliner. I no longer ventured outside my hotel bedroom without what my mam would call my “slap”. An actress had to look like an actress.
Maria handed me my hat and the fox fur I had bought with my first week’s salary. Every society lady had a fox fur, though no one in Haverth had ever worn one, to my knowledge. Mine was very beautiful, the tail sleek and voluminous, the body cosy against my neck, the skull-less head expertly moulded to appear as it had in life. It had a tortoiseshell clip under its tail which, when I wound it round myself, fitted into the open mouth, securing the fur. When I put it on I always felt utterly grown-up, as far removed as possible from the young girl in the second-hand shoes who had waved to the camera on a newsreel only a few months ago.
Once my hat was pinned on and we had checked my stockings for ladders and my shoes for scuffs, Maria opened the dressing-room door for me to pass through. My car would be waiting. “Good evening, Miss Hope,” she said.
I felt unsettled and inexplicably depressed. What if the animosity between Aidan and the rest of us were to appear on screen despite Aidan’s acting skills? What if the money men didn’t like the film, or it didn’t get finished, and everything went wrong? My career as a film actress would be over without anyone even knowing my name. Mam and Da and Frank would be crushingly disappointed, And I would be heartbroken.
The car drew up and the driver opened the door for me. I got in but had barely settled myself when the door on the other side opened and David slid into the seat beside me. “Good God, Clara, I need a drink!” He leaned across me to speak to the driver. “Eddie, the Ritz!”
David took a cigarette from the silver case he always carried with him and felt in his pockets for matches. When he had lit the cigarette he drew on it with satisfaction, then slumped in the seat and let his head loll backwards. “Jesus, what a day! Aidan really is impossible.” He glanced at me. “Oh, I’m so sorry” – he waved the cigarette case – “should I have offered you one?”
“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
He put the case in his pocket. “You will. Now, tell me truthfully. Are you happy?”
“Happy?” I was not sure what he meant. “Er … yes, of course.”
“Despite that ridiculous fellow?”
I hesitated. What did he wish me to say? That I would tolerate Aidan’s behaviour for the sake of the actual takes, during which he outacted me, or that I would prefer a different leading man, or perhaps that I cared not a bit one way or another? Before I could speak, David rolled his head sideways and looked at me. “No, I should not have asked you that. You are too professional to criticize him to me.”
I returned his look. My heart thudded a little, thrilled by the ease of his manner. It was delightful to be treated as the grown-up I was beginning to consider myself. I took in once again how handsome he was and felt my colour rise, though in the semi-darkness of the car he probably could not see it. “Do not say that, David,” I told him. “I am not professional at all, you know. I have never had an acting lesson in my life.” Now it had started, the confession I longed to make tumbled out. “I just muddle through, hoping I am doing the right thing and that I will not make too much of a fool of myself.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” David leaned forward and faced me, his knees touching mine. “Do you think I chose you merely because you are young and very beautiful and would look pretty on the screen?”
Very beautiful! My heart leapt to my throat. I could not speak. But David answered his own question. “Of course not! When I saw that newsreel, I had no idea that I would pick anyone out of it. I was not talent scouting – I was really only half watching it, to tell the truth – but that glimpse of you was enough. I telephoned to Bunniford that very moment.” He began to act it, using his director’s voice. “‘Get me that girl in the unflattering hat who appears about ninety seconds in!’ I told him. ‘I want her for my next picture!’” He moved even closer to me, and spoke in his ordinary voice. “The fact is, Clara, my dear, though you were on the screen for only one hundred and one frames, I went over those one hundred and one frames several times, and each time I grew more convinced you are an actress by nature. All the training in the world cannot better that, you know.”
I had calmed a little, and could breathe. But I was mystified. “Frames?” I asked. “Like a frame round a painting, you mean?”
He laughed delightedly and puffed on his cigarette. As he exhaled, the smoke went up my nose and I coughed. “My dear child,” said David, waving the cloud of smoke away, “has no one explained? Then allow me!”
He rested his cigarette on the ashtray so that he could use his hands to demonstrate. “A film is a long strip of pictures taken by the camera. You see the camera operator winding the reel of film through as he films, do you not?”
I nodded. David held up the palm of his left hand and made rolling movements over it with his right. “Well, when the film is shown, it is passed over a light at the correct speed, and the pictures seem to move.” He picked up his cigarette and flicked the ash off the end. “Each second, twenty-four frames pass over the light, which is the speed that gives the most natural-looking movement we can achieve.”
I considered this. “So the one hundred and one frames during which I was on the newsreel took … about four seconds to show?”
“Roughly, yes. Good God, Eddie!” he admonished the driver, “are you driving a car or a horse? Faster, man!”
“Four seconds?” I was amazed. I counted four seconds to myself as I sat there, trying to digest the information that such a tiny space of time had transformed my existence. The newsreel had been filmed on May Day, the first of May. Now, as I looked out of the window at the hazy August sky and the thick foliage of the hedgerows, I was filled with disbelief. How could so much have happened so quickly? Less than four months ago I had been a farmer’s daughter whose only connection with films was the Pier Pavilion Café – and my imagination. Now, I was travelling in a smart car with a fur around my neck, sitting beside a director. I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball.
“Believe me, Clara, that four seconds was enough,” said David. “You see, I had a strong suspicion that you would be good, and when I saw your scr
een test I knew I was right.” He straightened up in the seat and looked absently out of the window, his chin resting on his hand. In profile, intermittently lit by the slanting sunlight, his good looks took on a different aspect; I could see the muscles in his cheeks and jaw, and note how perfectly formed his ears were, and how delicate the shape of his nose. He was without doubt the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had ever tried his own hand at acting.
“I felt such an idiot,” I told him. “I was sure I would get a letter saying ‘thank you for attending, but we do not wish to see you again’.”
“You did not look an idiot. You looked as I had predicted: graceful in movement and expression, and able to convey emotions. You know, because the audience cannot hear their words, I always look for actors and actresses who can act ‘big’, though not so big that it becomes over-theatrical.”
The only theatrical productions I had seen were amateur ones in Aberaeron Church Hall, which had not impressed me much. “Like acting in the theatre, you mean?”
David pondered, still gazing out. The buildings had become taller and the traffic had increased; we were nearing the centre of London. “Like some acting in the theatre,” he said. “I have seen wonderful, realistic acting on the stage, and I have seen execrable overacting too. In films, we have to strike a balance. And you are very good at it indeed.” He turned away from the window and smiled, his thoughtful expression transforming into tenderness as I watched. “For which I shall be eternally grateful. Good actresses, who are as exquisitely formed as you in face and figure, are very difficult to find. Now, Eddie has at last got a move on. We shall be at the hotel in good time for cocktails.” He squeezed my arm. “What will you have? A gin sling?”
101 Pieces of Me Page 4
