‘Yes,’ Mr Korda said, grinning at her. ‘We’ll run it again and this time stick to the script, if you please. Action.’
She did it four times, which she found very boring, but, at the end of the fourth attempt, the great man came over and told her that was all he needed for the moment. ‘Come back on Wednesday, when we’ve seen the rushes. We’ll send a car to pick you up at the station at 8.30. Right?’ And that was that. She wiped off her make-up, hung up her costume, put on her own clothes and went home. She had no idea whether she’d got a job or not.
It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that she discovered that she’d been cast as the cook and would be required in crowd scenes and was to work on the film for the next six months. There was a contract waiting for her to sign and, among many other things, it gave her details of the salary she would be given. It was three times as much as she’d ever earned with Gerry and it would be paid monthly. It made her feel weak at the knees. The only drawback was that she was only going to earn it for six months. I’ll work really hard, she thought, and do my very, very best and then he might hire me for another picture when this one’s finished. For the moment, the knowledge that she could earn this sort of money was dizzyingly enough.
‘There you are,’ she said to Jim that evening. ‘I’ve got a job.’ And she handed her copy of the contract across the table, feeling pleased with herself. ‘Read that.’
He read with growing and obvious amazement. ‘Good God alive!’ he said and turned to grin at the girls. ‘Yer Mum’s gonna be a film star,’ he told them. ‘Whatcher think a’ that?’
They were very impressed. ‘Seriously?’ Gracie said. ‘Are you really?’
‘Well, I’ve got a part in a film. Yes,’ Rosie said, being strictly truthful. ‘But I’m not going to be the star. It’s just a small part, an’ I’ll have a lot to learn.’
But her daughters didn’t care whether she was going to be the star or not. Having a part in a film was excitement enough. ‘Wait till I tell them at school,’ Gracie said.
During the next two weeks, Rosie worked hard and learnt fast. She discovered that the film she was working on was called The Private Life of Henry VIII, that a film progresses at the director’s speed, that Mr Korda was a perfectionist and that the way to please him, was to work out exactly what he wanted and give it to him. It wasn’t long before she recognised the actors who were playing the main parts and were really stars. Sometimes she sneaked in to watch Mr Korda directing them and was impressed by the way they could stop being themselves and become someone else between one breath and the next. Two of them were people she’d seen on screen and her first sight of them was a revelation. The handsome heart throb, Robert Donat had asthma and could sometimes be tetchy because of it and he often looked downright ill, while the beautiful, smooth-skinned Merle Oberon, who played Anne Boleyn, had a really wicked grin when she was off-screen and talking to her friends. But it was Charles Laughton who intrigued her the most. He was a big, rather wobbly looking man who played Henry VIII and he was mesmerising. When he began to act, she found it impossible to look at anybody else and stood in the shadows watching him and marvelling. He looked so huge and bulky in that padded costume and much larger than life in every way, as if he had become the king and wasn’t just pretending.
After a month, she was completely accustomed to her work in the studio and had adapted to living in three completely different worlds, the world of cinema, that was entirely fantasy and full of passions that sounded fierce but were actually quite harmless, her life at home, that got better and better now she was earning well, and the life out in the wider world, where all sorts of terrible things were happening, that were hard to understand and that no one seemed able to control. The newspapers were full of them and so were the newsreels.
When she wasn’t needed on set, she sat on a deck chair, costumed and in full make-up, and read the papers, checking the unemployment figures, that just went on rising and rising, and wincing at pictures of weary-looking men, loafing around in the streets because they couldn’t find work. After a while she noticed other pictures too, of a horrible-looking Italian, like a toad in a tight uniform who was called Mussolini and a German called Adolf Hitler, who was the German Chancellor and always seemed to be bellowing with his mouth open. And she wondered why anyone in their right mind would vote for such people and was horrified that they did. And she remembered Keir Hardie, who’d been such a strong, gentle man and had spoken to people so directly and honestly, without all that roaring and shouting.
Sometimes there were pictures of Hitler’s supporters marching through the streets in their black uniforms, with their legs all kicking in unison and their right arms sticking up in the air like robots. At the end of April, there was news that he’d opened a place called a concentration camp where he was going to imprison everybody who opposed him, which she didn’t like the sound of at all. And in May his followers built a huge bonfire in a street in Berlin and burnt hundreds of books he didn’t agree with. And she remembered Gerry’s library and shuddered.
Work on The Private Life continued until November and by then Gracie was well into her first term at St Saviour’s, Jim had stopped worrying about money and Rosie had earned so much she’d even managed to put away some savings in her bank account. Which was just as well, because Mr Korda decided that his next project was to make a series of what he called ‘shorts’, which only required two or three actors, so there was no more work for her in the studios. It worried her a lot, but she kept her worries to herself, hoping that there would be another big picture after the shorts and that she could audition for a part in that. But after Christmas, her savings had dwindled so far, she was seriously worried. Maybe I’ll write to Gerry, she thought, and thank him for his help, which I ought to have done long since, and tell him how I got on with Private Life. He might be able to think of something else I could do.
Although she couldn’t have known it, her letter arrived in Cheyne Walk, at a peculiarly opportune moment. Gerry had been puzzling over an offer for a new and very different commission that he’d received three days previously. It had come from one of the big chocolate manufacturers, who were offering an exorbitant sum of money for a set of ten rural pictures to use on their chocolate boxes. He’d been talking it over with his friends at a party only the night before, and with one exception — a young artist who said he’d give his eye teeth for such an offer — they’d all been horrified at the idea, saying it would devalue the currency and telling him to put the idea right out of his mind. Even Augustus John had spoken to him in his avuncular way to remind him, that he was worth far, far more than any ‘chocolate box painter’ and he really shouldn’t consider it. So, to receive a nice, easy letter from his lovely Helen of Troy after all that, was quite a relief. Now if they’d asked me for ten portraits of her, he thought, I’d have done it like a shot. And that put an idea into his mind. He wasn’t really a landscape painter, but he could offer them a series of portraits of country girls, milkmaids, harvesters, gypsies even, and she could model for all of them. She needed the work and, if he earned the sort of money they were offering, he could pay her well. He might even win her back and that was something he’d never stopped wanting, no matter how many other women had drifted in and out of his life. He phoned that afternoon to ask his putative sponsor what he thought of the idea.
The putative sponsor was receptive to any idea this much-admired artist could offer him and, after half an hour’s satisfactory discussion, it was agreed that Mr de Silva would paint ten portraits of gypsy girls in country settings and that a contract would be drawn up the next day to that effect and sent to him for signature. The deal was almost done. Then he only had to ring Alexander Korda and find out if he could hire some costumes from the studio.
He found out a great deal more in that conversation too, for naturally they talked about Rosie as well as costumes.
‘An excellent worker,’ Mr Korda said, ‘and the camera loves her, just as I knew it woul
d. Unfortunately she can’t act.’
‘Will you be using her again?’ Gerry asked.
‘Possibly,’ his friend said. ‘Quite possibly. But only for bit parts and not for a year or two.’
It was just what Gerry wanted to hear. Now he could write to his lovely Helen of Troy and offer her the gypsies. Which he did, telling her he would be working on them for about a year, and that he would pay her the same rate as she’d earned at Elstree, and ending his letter with the words,
‘If you are happy with the idea, give me a ring.’
She was so relieved she rang as soon as she’d read the letter. And the following Monday she was back in Cheyne Walk.
The studio was reassuringly the same as it had been the last time she modelled there, except that the dresses that lay in tumbled profusion all over the chaise longue were gypsy costumes, headbands, scarves, castanets, gaudy jewellery and all. She and Gerry enjoyed themselves picking out the first one and he watched very happily while she changed into it and stood ready to be arranged and to take up her pose. It was as if they’d stepped back in time. The same old river flowed peacefully beyond the window, the fire shone warmly in the grate, the books stood in their usual order, there were various canvases standing against the wall. It was all exactly as it used to be.
On her third day, they began to talk in a desultory way about some of the other times she’d modelled for him, remembering the red dress and the way he’d changed that picture to turn it into Autumn.
‘Glad you’re back now?’ he asked, from behind the easel.
‘Very,’ she told him. ‘I like this sort a’ work.’
‘You do it well.’
‘To tell you the truth,’ she confessed, ‘I thought I might be getting a bit too old for it. I mean, it’s a long time…’
‘Age, my dear Helen, has nothing to do with it,’ he said. ‘It’s the beauty of the model that counts and you are more beautiful than ever.’
It was such a pretty compliment it made her glow. ‘Well thank you, kind sir,’ she said.
He emerged from behind the easel, his intentions clear on his face and in his eyes. ‘It’s nothing but the truth,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I still love you to distraction. You don’t know how good it is to have you back in the house.’ And he put his arms round her and kissed her, just as he’d done in the old days. And, despite her good intentions, she kissed him back. She simply couldn’t help it. She was enjoying it too much. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she ought to tell him to stop, but she couldn’t do it, any more than she’d been able to on that first dizzy time. He was already turning towards the bedroom, his arm round her waist, leading her. And why not? she thought. He’d given her a job when she needed it most, he was paying her well, he was the best friend she’d ever had, there was no harm in it, and Jim would never know. She’d make sure of that. There was only one worry and even that seemed small, given the pleasure of the moment.
‘I haven’t got my Dutch cap,’ she warned him.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘You can bring it next time. I’ll take care of you today.’
So their love affair resumed, under the same unspoken rules and in the same pleasurable way. It was almost as if nothing had happened to either of them since those early days of — what was it he used to call it? — sinful idleness. She was back living in her three worlds again.
It took more than a month to complete a picture, small though they were, so Gerry estimated they would be working together for more than a year, which pleased them both. In March he sent his first two gypsies to the sponsor, who wrote back at once to say they were all delighted with them and to promise that they would go into production by the end of April. And sure enough, at the beginning of May, they sent him two chocolate boxes, beautifully packed, one for him and one for Rosie, to show him how well they looked. Rosie took hers home to share with Jim and the girls and Jim said he’d never known such extravagance. It worried him that she’d gone back to work with that artist feller and, even though the picture of her was very pretty, he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to let her do. Not that he could have stopped her. That was one thing he did know.
In June there were two more boxes and in August another pair arrived. The girls said they’d all get fat, gobbling up chocolates at that rate. But when September began and they had a letter from Lant Street School to tell them that Mary was being put in the scholarship class, they not only had enough spare cash to celebrate with a tea party and an iced cake but bought another box of chocolates too.
Their family life continued to provide them with treats. In October when Gracie had been at St Saviour’s for over a year, they all went up to Leicester Square Theatre, dressed in their best clothes to attend the premier of The Private Life of Henry VIII.
It was a very grand occasion, with photographers taking pictures as they walked in and people serving champagne in the foyer and everybody bright-eyed and excited. It was a revelation to Jim that a party could actually be enjoyable; and quite a thrill to Rosie to be part of such a prestigious crowd and to know so many people there, and to think that her daughters were going to see her on screen. She wondered what they would say when they did and hoped they would like it. She wasn’t disappointed. They were both very impressed, although Mary said it didn’t look like her.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You’re still my mum but you look different up there.’
‘It’s all the make-up they put on you,’ Rosie explained.
‘Um,’ Mary said. ‘Well I wish they wouldn’t. I like you as you are.’
‘Nothin’ll ever change that,’ Jim told her. ‘She’ll always be yer mum, no matter what. You can depend on it.’
‘It’s all make-believe, this film lark,’ Rosie said. ‘None of it’s real. It’s like modelling. That’s all make-believe too. You put on a costume and you become somebody else. It’s all a game. It don’t mean anything.’ She was talking to Jim now, looking up into his face, trying to convince herself, as much as she was trying to convince him. ‘What’s real is at home. That’s what’s important.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said and made a joke of it. ‘I wouldn’t like ter think I’d married a gypsy.’
And then, just before Christmas, Edie wrote to Rosie in great excitement to say that Frank and Dotty had both been given parts in the school nativity play and wasn’t that good. ‘It’s on the last day of term,’ she wrote. ‘Do say you’ll come.’
So they all went down to Worthing, as Gracie and Mary had already broken up, and Jim took the afternoon off to join them — with Mr Feigenbaum’s permission of course. As it turned out, it was just as well he did.
Chapter 23
The nativity play was plainly staged and elaborately costumed in the usual motley collection of gowns made of old curtains and threadbare blankets, of gauze wings, paper crowns and a variety of tea towel headdresses kept in place with pyjama cords. Frank played Joseph and remembered his lines with an obvious and scowling effort and Dotty was one of the six self-conscious angels, who got their wings entangled and didn’t smile until they were urged forward to take a bow at the end. Afterwards they all went back to Station Road for tea and rock cakes, and Mary and Gracie told the kids they were wonderful, and they didn’t stop talking until the clock struck five.
Then Jim said they’d better be going because they’d got a train to catch. And they kissed one another goodbye, bundled into their thick coats and hats, wound scarves round their necks and headed out into the cold. And Mary looked at her father and changed their direction.
‘Are we going to the beach?’ she asked. And when he looked puzzled, she put her hand on his arm and wheedled, ‘You did promise.’
‘It’s much too late for beaches,’ Rosie said. ‘You won’t see anything. It’ll be dark before we get there. And cold.’
But Gracie waded in to support her sister. ‘I’d like to see the sea too. And you did promise Dad
. I remember.’
Jim looked at Rosie with a question on his face and Rosie shrugged. ‘If you ask me,’ she said, ‘it’s a damned silly idea. But if you want to do it, you’ll do it. Don’t blame me if you all catch cold.’
So Jim and his daughters walked down to the sea, arm in arm and singing carols all the way, and Rosie trudged beside them thinking how stupid it was. They’ll be frozen down there in the dark, she thought, and there’ll be nothing to see.
Sure enough, by the time they reached Marine Parade it was bitterly cold and so dark that the streetlights had been lit. They stood looking down at the rapidly blackening sea, as it rolled monotonously toward the shore, each long wave tipped with a froth of foam that shone silver-white under the streetlamps and fell on the shingle with a long hiss. The shops were all shut, the streets were virtually empty and there was nothing else to see or do.
Rosie put up with it until she began to shiver. Then she asked if they had had enough. But even as she spoke, everything changed. The doors of the domed Pavilion at the end of the pier were flung open, letting out a strong beam of light and the noise of a crowd. Within seconds, the pier was filled with a long column of marching men. They were dressed in uniform black, from the military caps on their heads to the jackboots on their feet, and they all had their right arms sticking up in the air, the way those awful Germans did, and were chanting and bellowing. At first Rosie couldn’t hear what they were saying but, as they grew nearer to the road, their words became clearer and she realised that it was ‘England for the English! Mosley! Mosley!’ And she saw that the column was being led by a tall man in the same black uniform. He walked with a limp and had a moustache like Hitler’s and the most arrogant face she’d ever seen. The sight of him made her feel suddenly and terribly afraid. There was something sinister about these men, something alien, inhuman. She glanced to her left to see if the girls were all right and noticed that they were clinging to their father’s hands.
Everybody's Somebody Page 28
