by Lissa Evans
‘We should rope him off,’ Buckley would say, tiptoeing past. ‘Danger UXB.’
Elsewhere in the room, tea would be made and drunk, newspapers read, sandwiches eaten. And then Parfitt would awake suddenly, exhaling like a diver, and would grab a pencil and make his amendments with rapid fluency, not inventing but merely transcribing the lines that were already written inside his head.
If, however, there was nothing in the scene that caught his fancy, then he’d spend twenty minutes sighing and shifting around in his chair before scribbling a few perfunctory changes and then slamming the pencil back on the desk. Catrin came to know her cue.
‘Mine?’ she’d ask, keenly, reaching for the pages.
‘Yours.’
In some of the scenes that were passed to her it was simply a matter of changing the odd word or phrase, so that Rose and Lily might sound like two young women as opposed to two middle-aged men. In others, Buckley and Parfitt’s imaginations had failed them entirely and a blank had been left in the dialogue, together with a descriptive note. (‘Twins chatter while preparing an evening meal for their uncle, then Rose turns on the wireless’. ‘The twins discuss what to wear on the boat, and decide to dress as men.’ ) She couldn’t, she knew, write the true Lily and Rose, but she could make Rose the bolder of the two, she could make Lily sweet and shy and film-mad. She could make them both brave.
LILY
There’ll be guns going off, I suppose.
ROSE
I expect so. We’ll probably hear them long before we get to Dunkirk.
LILY
And will there be explosions?
ROSE
There might be, it depends if the Germans have sent any planes. It’ll be awfully noisy, anyhow. Do you still want to go, Lil?
LILY
Oh yes. I don’t mind a bit of noise.
ROSE
Don’t you, Lil? Won’t you be frightened?
LILY
(tucking her hair into a man’s hat) No. I’ll just pretend that I’m Errol Flynn. Nothing frightens him.
‘Flabby’, Buckley had said, after she’d sweated over the Errol Flynn page for three and a half hours, mouthing the lines to herself over and over again, first as wide-eyed Lily, then as sensible Rose. ‘Look at it, every line’s twice as long as it needs to be, your audience’ll be dropping off, they’ll start gossiping about last night’s bomb. You only need to say everything once, you know, it’s not a novel. Here—’ He’d licked the end of a pencil, crossed out half the scene and added a word. ‘Now it’s just about useable.’
LILY
There’ll be guns going off, I suppose.
ROSE
I expect so. We’ll probably hear them long before we get to Dunkirk.
LILY
And will there be explosions?
ROSE perhaps.
There might be, it depends if the Germans have sent any planes. It’ll be awfully noisy, anyhow. Do you still want to go, Lil?
LILY
Oh yes. I don’t mind a bit of noise.
ROSE
Don’t you, Lil? Won’t you be frightened?
LILY
(tucking her hair into a man’s hat) No. I’ll just pretend that I’m Errol Flynn. Nothing frightens him.
‘And look—’ he’d jabbed a finger at the text. ‘There’s a possible title there as well.’
‘Which line?’
‘Nothing Frightens Them. Stick it down.’
Dutifully, she’d added his suggestion to the annotated list that she kept at the back of a notebook. ‘When we find the right one, it’ll shout “Bingo”,’ Buckley had said, but the list now ran to two pages and no one had done any shouting yet.
The last ashtray emptied, the last smear of Brylcreem wiped from the shift key, and Catrin took a pencil and opened the notebook. She would go by impulse, she decided; anything that looked like the type of film that she might actually be tempted to go and see would be marked with an asterisk.
Channel Crossing (NB, Parfitt says already a film called this)
Channel Incident (ditto, last year, Denham & Pinewood)
Channel Firing
Channel Rescue
Channel Drama
Channel Danger
Two for Dunkirk
Three for Dunkirk
To Dunkirk
Back from Dunkirk
To Dunkirk and Back Again
Dunkirk*
Buckley’s Water Frolics
Nothing Frightens Them
They Were Brave
Into Danger*
Dangerous Crossing (NB RKO already in production with Dangerous Moonlight)
On the Beaches
Across the Waves
Toward the Enemy
Through Shot and Shell
Twin Danger
Double Danger
Twin Crossing
Double Crossing (ha ha!)
Flowers of the Sea
The Little Barge
The Little Ship*
The Little Boat
Cockles and Mussels
A Pair of Fishwives
Girls at Sea
Women of the Waves (Raymond Parfitt award for worst title of the twentieth century)
Just One Story
A True Story
It Happened Like This . . .
Her pen hovered beside the last suggestion, but she couldn’t, in all conscience, place a mark by it. Nothing, nothing, in the script so far bore the slightest resemblance to the actual events of Sunday, 2nd June. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she added another suggestion to the list.
‘Got anything for me?’
It was Phyl, the continuity girl from the production office downstairs, peering around the half-open door; Catrin put down her pen. ‘Yes, come on in – only tell me, do you think you’d go and see a film called It Happened on Sunday?
‘Only if it starred Rita Hayworth.’ Phyl picked her way across to Buckley’s desk and lifted the piece of paper drooping from the typewriter. ‘Is he still on that page?’
‘Yes, but Parfitt’s just finished the whole of the section where the engine breaks down. That’s er . . .’ Catrin scanned the floor. ‘. . . here.’ She marked the spot with a scrap of newspaper, and handed the typed pages to Phyl. ‘That’s three-and-a-half scenes,’ she added, placatingly. ‘You will do it quickly, won’t you, so I can replace it before they come back?’
Phyl nodded and glanced around the office; she was at least forty, but she stood like a fashion mannequin, her weight all on one hip, one hand elegantly adjusting the knot of sandy hair at the nape of her neck. ‘This morning,’ she said, ‘the location manager wired me from somewhere near Cromer, I’ve had two calls from the casting office, two from the scenic department and one from someone who I think must be the director, although if I’m right then God help me since he’s clearly one of the non-speaking variety. It goes without saying that the script secretary’s in tears, and I’ve also had a rather menacing visit from the third AD, he’s the same one we had on the Careless Talk shoot, the one with the dog – which reminds me, actually, I must speak to the casting director – and that pathetic little accountant Shipton has practically put up a tent in my office. Can you imagine what they’re all begging for?’
‘A complete first draft,’ said Catrin.
‘That’s right. Not for putting in front of the camera, not for mass publication, just for issuing to all the poor so-and-sos who are trying to draw up preliminary lists, and book studios and build flattage and basically get the damn thing made. You realize that we’re supposed to be filming the location scenes in March.’
‘I know, and I do try and nag them, Phyl, honestly, but . . .’
‘No, it’s not your fault – it’s just Buckley enjoying his little bit of power, he uses perfectionism as an excuse for brute laziness. I’m only grateful that there’s someone in here who’s on my side.’ She gave a brisk smile and then raised her head sharply, like a pointer. ‘You know,’ she said, �
�I can actually smell him. There’s a Buckley-shaped scent hovering just above this chair – three parts ego to one part hair-oil. Tell me, does he ever try it on with you?’
Catrin hesitated. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Chase you around the desk? Pinch your behind?’
‘No. Not as such.’
‘Is that so?’ Phyl gave her a long look, part-warning, part-disbelief. ‘Only he has a frightful reputation with pretty girls. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’
She left with the pages of script, and Catrin sat for a while, twirling the pencil between her fingers. It was quite true that Buckley had never pinched her behind or chased her around the desk. He had, however, on her very first day in the office, tactfully choosing a moment when Parfitt had gone to the Gents, informed her that she was a very attractive young woman, that she must be awfully lonely during the many evenings when her husband was on duty, and that it was only the fact that Ellis was (in effect) serving his country that prevented him (Buckley) from Doing Something About It. ‘I’m shackled by conscience,’ he’d said, managing, nevertheless, to imply that those shackles were on the flimsy side and might drop off altogether were Catrin to apply even the slightest pressure. At this point Parfitt had returned, and Buckley had snapped back, without any apparent embarrassment, to his usual persona, that of Escoffier instructing a trainee kitchen maid. It was a role with which Catrin was far more comfortable, and she was beginning, she liked to think – she was just beginning – to understand the basic elements, to learn which knife to use and when to use it. She hardly blushed at all, these days.
Mercifully, Buckley hadn’t mentioned the shackles again, but sometimes, when they were alone in the office, he would extend his linked wrists towards Catrin, and look martyred, and she would say, ‘Don’t, please’, in as cold and collected a tone as she could manage. Far more tricky to cope with were his endless, nosy questions about Ellis.
‘Is he older than you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forty?’
‘No.’
‘Sixty?’
‘No.’
‘Want me to go on guessing?’
‘He’s thirty-four.’
‘So why hasn’t he been called-up yet?’
‘He has a damaged eardrum.’
‘Stuck a paintbrush in it?’
‘Mortar-fire in Spain.’
‘Oh, he’s got principles, then. And were you his student?’
‘No.’
‘His model?’
‘No. We met in a café . . .’
Silence on her part just provoked more questions; answers provoked more questions. Facetiousness, she had discovered, was the only way to shut him up.
‘So what does he paint, then? Landscapes?’
‘No. Industrial and urban subjects.’
‘Oh, he’s a house painter.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Does he do guttering?’
‘No, never.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too specialized.’
‘Who should I get for that, then?’
‘Try Augustus John.’
Buckley had laughed at that – one bark, like a sea-lion spotting a fish.
Phyl returned the purloined scenes just a minute or two before the writers’ tread was audible on the stairs.
‘I hope,’ said Buckley, entering the room, ‘that we don’t have a fifth-columnist in our midst. Only I could have sworn that that harridan downstairs gave me a smug look when we passed her office, and it struck me as the sort of look that might be worn by someone who’s somehow got hold of a premature version of the script.’
‘What happened at the meeting?’ asked Catrin, brightly.
Buckley dropped into his chair and swung his feet on to the desk. ‘Parfitt, tell her what happened at the meeting.’
Parfitt sat down more slowly, reached into his pocket and took out a hip-flask. ‘All rot,’ he muttered, unscrewing the top and taking a long pull. He wiped his mouth, and then took another. ‘Bloody fools,’ he added.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Buckley. ‘We got there, and there were six other people in the room with fourteen jobs between them – under-secretary of this, advisor to the central committee of the military board of the propaganda arm of the civilian wing of that. Thanks—’ he took the proffered flask, downed a mouthful and handed it back to Parfitt. ‘Thanks,’ he added, more hoarsely. ‘So they sat us down and told us that we’re doing a splendid job, but that they need our cooperation on a matter of extreme national importance about which they’re getting a lot of ministerial stick. And Edwin Baker, being a fine and experienced producer, said that we would endeavour to help in any way possible provided that it was within our financial capabilities, and then some whinnying little civil servant cleared his throat and told us to put an American in it.’
Catrin stared at him. ‘Put an American in what?’
‘In the film.’
‘In this film? In the Dunkirk film?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put an American in this film?’
‘Is there an echo in here?’
‘But an American doing what?’
‘Do you know, that’s exactly the question Parfitt asked. Wasn’t it?’
Parfitt grunted.
‘He asked, “An American doing what?” and the man from the ministry said, “Encouraging other Americans to watch the film and to support the Allied cause”. It appears, you see, that American distributors aren’t very keen on buying any of our recent films, mainly because they’re full of British people with British accents being awf’ly British, and the Minister wants something done about it. The phrase used was, “We need to make a gesture”. So . . .’ Buckley glanced over his shoulder at the rows of scene cards, ‘. . . we have somehow to insert a token Yank.’ He stood up abruptly and caught his chair just as it tipped over. He looked, Catrin thought, less outraged than he should have – he looked, in fact, strangely galvanized by the idea of once again re-shuffling the pack.
‘But we can’t,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t fit the story.’
‘Doesn’t it? Oh well . . .’ Buckley shrugged and reached for his hat. ‘. . . that’s it, then. We’ll just have to shut down the production. Come on Parfitt, get your coat, the expert from the Valleys has spoken.’ Parfitt made the combustion-engine noise that indicated one of his rare laughs.
‘But, really,’ said Catrin, ‘there weren’t any Americans at Dunkirk, so how can there be one in the film?’
Buckley sighed and then made a lunge for a piece of paper that was lying on the edge of Catrin’s table. He sat reading it, silently. ‘Not bad,’ he said, handing it back. ‘Rose Starling dictated that to you, did she?’
‘No.’
‘You were eavesdropping on the platform, when she saw her fiancé on to the troop train?’
‘No.’
‘So how did you come to write those lines?’
‘I just . . . I don’t know, I simply imagined what they’d say.’
‘And if this ever gets to the cinema, do you think that all the Mauds and Annies sitting in the one-and-nines blubbering into their hankies will believe that this is exactly what Rose Starling said to her Johnnie?’
Catrin stared at the scene. It had taken her three days to write, and she had barely slept for thinking of it, she had tested every word on her tongue, and yet now it looked to her as authentic as a posy of crêpe flowers. ‘I don’t suppose they will,’ she said. ‘No.’
‘Baloney,’ said Buckley, crisply. ‘You’re forgetting that we’ve got them, all the Mauds and Annies, they’re ours – they’re not members of the Kinematic Discussion Group, they’re not in some lousy boulevard café debating the role of the artist, they’re sitting in the dark and they’re watching a story, and if that story’s good enough – if it’s well enough told – then for ninety minutes it’ll seem real to them, and if it seems real to them, then they’ll believe every word. Doesn’t matter if it’s not t
rue. And in any case,’ he added, taking up his old place in front of the wall of cards and bouncing on his toes a couple of times, like a PT instructor, ‘in any case, the bastards in the MoI control the film stock, and if we don’t give them what they ask for then the film doesn’t get made. So if they demand a bloody elephant at Dunkirk then it’s incumbent on us to come up with a convincing subplot incorporating Group Captain Jumbo of the Third Gloucesters and his adventures on the road to La Panne. Isn’t that right, Parfitt?’
Parfitt turned his mottled face slowly towards his co-writer. ‘So I’ve heard,’ he said, with peculiar emphasis.
‘Howdah you mean?’ returned Buckley, pulling on a pair of imaginary braces.
‘I mean, you’re a hard tusk-master.’
Catrin ducked; a stampede of elephant-based puns was clearly on its way. She looked instead at the scene between Rose and Johnnie. It was a flashback, written to slot in between two shots of Rose at the tiller of the Redoubtable as she steered towards Dunkirk, her eyes on the horizon and her thoughts on her fiancé. Catrin knew the lines off by heart, and this time, as her eyes slid down the page, she tried to watch it rather than read it: John Clements as Johnnie, perhaps, Margaret Lockwood as Rose, their faces ten feet wide, a drift of blue smoke across the screen, the crunch of someone eating an apple in the row behind . . .
Rose is on the platform, Johnnie is on the train. He is leaning through the window and holding her hand.
JOHNNIE
You will write?
ROSE
Every single day.
JOHNNIE
You won’t have enough news for every single day.
ROSE
I won’t have any big news, but I’ll tell you about the small things. I’ll tell you about the shrimp catch, and the queue at the grocer’s, and which film star Lily’s fallen in love with this week. I’ll tell you about the allotment, and how many eggs the hens have laid.
JOHNNIE
And will you tell me that you miss me?
