by Graham Rawle
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Graham Rawle
Dedication
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Afterword
Acknowledgements
Copyright
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ABOUT THE BOOK
Welcome to Overland! Where the California sun shines down on synthetic grass and plastic oranges bedeck the trees all year round. Steam billows gently from the chimney tops and the blue tarpaulin lake is open for fishing…
Hollywood set-designer George Godfrey has been called on to do his patriotic duty and he doesn’t believe in half-measures. If he is going to hide an American aircraft plant from the threat of Japanese aerial spies he has an almighty job on his hands. He will need an army of props and actors to make the Lockheed factory vanish beneath the semblance of a suburban town. Every day, his “Residents” climb through a trapdoor in the factory roof to shift model cars, shop for imaginary groceries and rotate fake sheep in felt-green meadows.
Overland is a beacon for the young women labouring below it: Queenie, dreaming of movie stardom while welding sheet metal; Kay, who must seek refuge from the order to intern “All Persons of Japanese Ancestry”. Meanwhile, George’s right-hand Resident, Jimmy, knows that High Command aren’t at all happy with the camouflage project…
With George so bewitched by his own illusion, might it risk confusing everybody – not just the enemy?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Graham Rawle is a writer, artist and designer. His popular series “Lost Consonants” ran in the Weekend Guardian for 15 years. His collaged novel, Woman’s World, created entirely from fragments of found text clipped from vintage women’s magazines, was described by The Times as “a work of genius”. His interpretation of The Wizard of Oz was named 2009 Book of the Year at the British Book Design Awards, and his novel The Card was shortlisted for the 2013 Writers’ Guild Best Book Award. Rawle lives in London and teaches at the University of Brighton. He is Visiting Professor of Illustration at Falmouth University and Norwich University of the Arts where in 2012 he was awarded an Honorary Doctorate for services to design.
ALSO BY GRAHAM RAWLE
Diary of an Amateur Photographer
Woman’s World
The Card
for Margaret
ONE
A LOCKHEED P-38 fighter-bomber flew low over the ocean. The sun glinted off the aircraft’s streamlined shape silhouetted against the shimmering aquamarine water below.
Presently, the plane crossed the California coastline, marked by a foaming frill where the breaking waves met the pale sands of Santa Monica beach. Confident, and in control, the pilot headed inland, the high, wide bubble canopy affording him a panoramic view.
From a height of three thousand feet, Santa Monica appeared as an intricate two-dimensional mosaic of pale grays and browns, the buildings conforming to a tightly gridded network of intersecting roads. An occasional patch of green indicated an area of parkland or a sports field. The pilot ran a gloved finger over the chart on his knee, picking up the long diagonal thread of Santa Monica Boulevard, which cut across the grid, pointing like an arrow in a north-easterly direction towards the Hollywood Hills.
Climbing above the peaks, he glanced down at the blocky white letters of the Hollywoodland sign, then flew north over the extensive network of sound stages and back lots that together formed the Warner Bros. Studios estate on one side, and the new Walt Disney Studios on the other. From here, he headed on towards the residential area of Burbank.
He consulted his flight chart, checking for landmark reference points and then took the plane down to two thousand feet. From here, cars were clearly visible: tiny dotted lines threading their way along thin gray roads. The pilot shook his head. He checked his compass again, and rolled the plane first left and then right, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for.
It was gone nine when George emerged from Shangri-La Cottage. He was by nature an early riser and would have been up a couple of hours ago, but instead had lain awake considering things. He found this the most valuable time to think, while the residue of recent dreams—often a source of inspiration—still lingered on the pillow. Among the things he had given thought to that Monday morning were a statue of a man on horseback sitting atop a heavy-looking plinth; a couple of cream-colored removal trucks, big and boxy with something like Atlas Removals painted on the side; and a red windmill with latticework cross sails—the traditional kind most commonly seen in Holland or on the lid of a chocolate box.
He stood on the porch, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light. Residents were already up and about, enjoying the glorious sunshine. Everyone seemed so nicely turned out, as though today they had chosen to wear something special: men in casual shirts and summer slacks, women in cotton dresses with extravagant wide-brimmed hats they might normally save for a garden party or wedding.
Closing the door behind him he sauntered down the garden path, stopping to admire the tree that stood in the middle of his garden. Even for those who know about such things, he imagined that this particular botanical variety, with its vivid moss-green foliage and tight lilac blooms, would have been difficult to identify: some kind of hybrid flowering maple maybe, or a rare ornamental sycamore? Naturally, he couldn’t say.
Out on the sidewalk a woman passed by pushing a baby buggy. He’d spoken to her several times before, but could never quite remember her name. Joyce, was it? She was usually in nurse’s uniform, but today she wore a gray-taupe dress with a brown tilt hat and matching gloves. The dark tangerine scarf at her throat brought out the bronze notes in her hair. It was a great color combination; one that George thought might translate well to a building facade or storefront.
She paused at his garden gate.
“Good morning. Another glorious day.” She cinched her gloves tighter as she gazed up at the sky.
George nodded in agreement. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back his head, taking in the wide, seamless expanse of blue. He’d never realized there was so much of it.
“What have we done to deserve it?” he said.
Joyce—if that was her name—didn’t know. “Beats me,” she said.
George let out a contented sigh. They both took a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun on their faces.
“How’s the baby today?” he said.
The woman glanced at her buggy. “A whole lot better than the one I got yesterday. He looked like Edward G. Robinson.”
George winced sympathetically.
She
told him she had to run a couple of errands so, releasing the brake on the buggy, bid him farewell and continued along the street.
It was reassuring to watch the Residents going about their business. Near the entrance to the bank building a man in a charcoal blazer with a cheerful yellow vest, and another wearing a checked frock coat and top hat that might have come from a different century, were erecting a wooden flagpole. In the shade of a garden umbrella nearby, a red-faced man sat on the grass huffing into the nozzle of a candy-striped beach ball.
Someone yelled good morning. George looked up to see Jimmy standing astride the pitched apex of his roof, painting its surface brick-red with a wide roller attached to a pole. It seemed a couple of shades too dark, but it would dry lighter.
George signaled his approval with a thumbs-up. “Much better.”
“Thanks. Sid told me you weren’t so keen on the other color?”
“Too bright. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, do we?”
Jimmy shrugged agreeably and continued painting. “You’re the boss.”
George idly watched him work for a while. Perhaps sensing this, Jimmy turned to resume the conversation.
“Hey, you want to buy a motorcycle, Mr Godfrey?”
The question caught him off guard. It took a moment for him to think about it. Slowly he shook his head. “Motorcycle? Me? No thanks. Too dangerous. A feller could kill himself on one of those things.”
“Well, if you hear of anyone who’s feeling suicidal …”
George nodded.
At the gate, he noticed that the corner of his lawn had folded over to reveal the bare plywood underneath. He flipped it back over with the toe of his wingtip.
A dove-gray automobile rolled quietly by. Following in its path at the same leisurely pace was a long white bus with a red stripe painted along its side. At the wheel was a kid wearing a bow tie and soda jerk hat. The hand-painted destination sign above his head read OVERLAND. Once the bus had passed, George crossed to the other side of the street. Here, behind the houses, an area of shrubs bordered lush green fields populated by lazily grazing sheep. On a hillside some distance away, a farmer drove a tractor steadily up and down, tilling the land—or whatever it was that farmers did.
George stood there in the warm breeze surveying the surroundings. A feeling of well-being swelled his chest. No runny nose, no itchy eyes, no sneezing. In fact he didn’t remember having sneezed once since he came to Overland. At home—what he used to call home—long bouts of repetitive sneezing, particularly in the mornings, had become the norm. Muriel had been less than sympathetic.
“For Christ’s sake, George, would you give it a rest with the sneezing?”
When he reminded her of his allergy, explaining that he couldn’t help it, she accused him of putting it on just to annoy her.
He supposed he could have made more effort to stifle them; it wasn’t entirely necessary to bark out big explosive Arrashoos every time, but the truth of it was he enjoyed seeing her flinch. In the aftermath of each sneeze George would groan with a dopey look on his face to convey the extent of his suffering as he reached for his hanky, hot and damp from repeated use. This would cause Muriel to stare at the floor, shaking her vexed head and muttering Jesus under her breath.
Back then, it was in the early mornings that he suffered most. While Muriel slept heavily beside him George would lie awake, growing increasingly aware of the dreadful cloying scent she had doused herself in the night before. It was always the same one, Affaire de Coeur, a syrupy, dime-store favorite reminiscent of cheap candy and week-old gardenias. It clung like a virus, seeming to gain strength overnight until it permeated everything in the room. He would turn his face away from her on the pillow, trying to ignore it, but before long he would feel his nose start to prickle and fizz in the build-up to the onslaught that would soon follow. Putting Muriel and the awful Affaire de Coeur out of his mind, George wandered back towards Shangri-La. Jimmy had all but finished painting his roof when he accidentally kicked the corner of his paint tray and sent it sliding gently down the slope. He pounced, attempting to trap it with his roller, but skidded on a slick patch of wet paint, falling onto his rear end. With nothing to grab hold of, he slid helplessly down the roof; dumped by his own momentum, along with roller and paint tray, off the edge and onto his garden lawn. He clambered to his feet to inspect the damage. Though unhurt there was a big smear of red paint down the back of his pants. He turned his hands palm upwards and saw that they too were covered in paint. George stifled a chuckle.
The automobiles in Parking Lot F were flecked with dappled light filtering down through the greenery above. The factory’s morning shift was well underway so the lot was largely deserted of people.
A Jack Russell terrier sat alone on the back seat of a brand new 1942 Plymouth, minding its own business, when suddenly there was a soft slap on the concrete. Immediately recognizing the sound, the dog’s ears shot up and, with a squirming little wriggle of excitement, he launched himself through the car’s open window. He darted between the other vehicles and across the yard, leaping gracefully into the air to snatch a tennis ball, mid bounce. With the ball clamped in his eager jaws, he scurried back to the Plymouth and jumped in through the window. There he lay, contented and proud, gnawing on the new acquisition. A row of other balls just like it lay beside him on the seat.
The trees that lined the Overland sidewalk were wide but short, perhaps no more than twenty feet tall, as though not yet fully grown. It could get pretty windy at times so their trunks were tethered to the ground by piano wire. Beside one of them, a man up a stepladder was handling a large square of green fishing net, attached to which were a couple of dozen orange plastic balls. He cast the net so that it draped over the tree’s greenery. George saw that the branches of all the other trees on the street had been similarly festooned. He wandered over.
“Perfect. What better way to start the day than a glass of freshly squeezed California orange juice?”
He picked a succulent-looking orange from a basket on the ground. When he squeezed it, the thin plastic dented with a click and he had to tease it back into shape with his thumbs.
“Where did these come from?” said George.
“Left over from some publicity shoot. Esther Williams was supposed to be swimming in a lake of orange juice.”
“How come they didn’t they use real oranges? You’d think they’d have enough of them here.”
“That’s Hollywood for you. Why use the real thing when you can fake it and be just as convincing? They’ve got two thousand of them sitting in a warehouse out in Glendale.”
“Brother, that’s a lot of juice. Tell them we’ll take five hundred, they take too long to hang. Nice touch though. Cheers the place up.”
“Is anyone really going to see these, Mr Godfrey?”
“You never know, Walter. Attention to detail. That’s the key.”
Across the street, a fire hydrant spouted not water but smoke.
TWO
IN A RUN-DOWN suburb of Los Angeles—shabby houses with peeling paint—where sprawling middle-aged women sit out on the front stoop and grubby kids run loose, a youth leaned over the rail of an apartment building fire escape, spitting onto the passers-by below. The sun beat down, but this neighborhood looked exhausted by it, slumped into a state of fatigue. Somewhere overhead, ignored by the locals, was the steady, rasping drone of an airplane.
In the front yard of a once smart Victorian family house, a wooden sign on a post had been hammered into a scratchy patch of dry lawn: The Rosary Hall Residence. Below it, in smaller letters: Hospitality—Friendliness—Just Like Home.
Queenie struggled awkwardly on high heels carrying two bulky suitcases, with a tartan purse slung over her shoulder, a vanity case tucked under one arm and a ratty fur coat under the other. Halfway down the front path she dumped her luggage on the ground and stomped determinedly back towards the house. Before she got there, the sour-faced Mrs Snaith appeared in the open
doorway and slung out her portfolio with as much force as she could muster. Queenie made a lunge for it, hoping to catch it before it fell, but she was too late; it landed smack on its spine and split open, sending its contents skidding across the path.
The front door slammed shut and Queenie was left alone—furious and humiliated. Becoming aware of passers-by on the street who had witnessed the commotion, she picked on a middle-aged bluenose in a business suit and stared him down.
“What’s eating you, pal?”
The man sheepishly bowed his head and continued on his way.
Queenie stooped to gather her scattered belongings: eight-by-ten glossy portraits of herself in a range of poses—demure, dramatic, cheesecake. At the window of the house behind her, Mrs Snaith looked on for a moment before propping up a sign against the glass: Vacancy. Furnished room for rent.
Queenie dusted herself off, picked up her bags and strode out onto the street. She glared bitterly back at the Rosary Hall Residence.
Just like home.
In another part of town, a spacious kitchen with clean, tidy surfaces boasted a modern Magic Chef gas range in off-white with matching cupboards set against cheerful floral wallpaper. On the kitchen table was a cardboard box sealed with gummed strip, stamped and labeled for mailing. The recipient, Mrs Ishi, stood over it, her eyes sparkling with quiet anticipation. She fetched a short knife from her kitchen drawer and carefully sliced through the tape. Lifting the flaps and folding them back against the sides of the box, she revealed two dozen neatly packed cans of sardines. She nodded, pleased at the sight, and ran her hand over the top layer.
Watching with interest from the edge of the sink was a green conure parakeet.
“Oh, no,” it said. “What’s this?” The bird’s voice was small and scratchy as if down the line of a long-distance telephone call.
“It’s fish,” explained Mrs Ishi.
