by Graham Rawle
Overland seemed a little quieter today; there were fewer extras on the streets. She wondered if they were filming on another part of the set. Or perhaps, with it being so sunny, they had found a place in the shade to rest and cool off. She approached an older man with a kind face—he was maybe in his sixties—wearing a gaily colored leisure shirt and a little pork pie hat perched high on his pink head.
“Hey, mister. You seen Mr Godfrey?” she said.
“Mr Godfrey? Last I saw of him he was up by the church talking to Jimmy.”
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“Jimmy Shepherd. Jimmy’s Mr Godfrey’s Man Friday.”
“How would I get there from here?”
“Go along Main Street, past the library towards the intersection. You’ll see the clock on your right. Then take a right at Kaiser’s. I mean left. Onto Fortune Way.”
Queenie was trying to get the directions straight in her head. “Up this street, past the library and then at Kaiser’s I turn left? What’s Kaiser’s?”
“Wait, I’ll come with you. I need to take the dog for a walk anyway. I’ll be right back.”
The man nipped inside one of the houses and reappeared a few moments later with his dog, which turned out to be a push-along toy on wheels. Actually, it was more lifelike than a toy—most likely a dead pet reincarnated by a taxidermist, in which case the wheels were an odd choice. The dog, a Jack Russell, white with brown patches, had a slightly bewildered expression, as indeed it might, considering how things had turned out for the poor mutt.
“This is Chummy,” said the man.
Queenie was a little taken aback. “Oh, he’s … cute.”
Chummy had a nice red collar, attached to which was a leash that was rigid like a yardstick, enabling his owner to push the dog along ahead of him. The three of them set off along Main Street.
“You had him long?”
“I found him in the prop room last week. I sort of adopted him … gave him a new home. Chummy’s the name of the dog we had when I was a kid.”
“It suits him.”
“Did you ever have a dog?”
Queenie shook her head. “No. I wanted one, but my dad was dead against it.”
“You can hold Chummy’s leash if you like.”
“Nah. You go ahead. I’ll wait till he gets to know me better.”
They continued up the hill, Queenie taking in the rows of houses with their smoking chimneys and broad front porches. Each sat squarely within its own generous plot of land, bordered by tidy green hedges and flowering shrubs. They had red roofs and white walls with windows that looked little more than dark squares painted onto the siding. To her eye, the proportions of the buildings seemed slightly off; they were wide but unusually squat, like regular two-story houses that had been trodden into the landscape by a flat-footed giant. All the homes on the street had been built in this modern, low-profile style.
As far as film sets went, she regarded this as a particularly pleasing one. While it was not, in her opinion, always altogether convincing, this Mr Godfrey had managed to create the kind of neighborhood regular folks would be proud to live in, where people only ever saw the good in you. The atmosphere seemed to have rubbed off on the extras who, rather than constantly bellyaching about the long hours waiting around as they usually did, seemed to be enjoying every minute of their time here, whiling away the day.
They turned the corner into Fortune Way. The man was explaining how things worked.
“There’s nothing to it. All you have to do is act like you’re one of the locals.”
Queenie nodded. “And I’m acting all the time?”
“In a manner of speaking. It comes naturally after you’ve been doing it a while. You become part of the community.”
“So you and I, we’re acting now. Just shooting the breeze, chatting about this and that. You’re doing what you do … what do you do?”
“I’m a carpenter.”
“Oh, so you’re part of the crew? Or do you mean you’re playing the part of a carpenter?”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
She frowned, a little confused. “I guess. So you’re in this thing too.”
He furrowed his brow. “We’re all in it. Everyone here plays a part.”
She nodded slowly, taking the idea on board. “OK. I get it.”
She didn’t, not quite. But she felt she was beginning to.
Playing their parts up ahead were a group of young women in summer dresses who had organized an impromptu picnic in one of the fields. Some sat or knelt on the plaid picnic blanket they had spread out on the grass, chatting convivially as they helped themselves to tasty prepared treats from a wicker hamper, while others played a spirited game of catch with an inflatable yellow beach ball. Queenie thought she recognized one or two of the women from the factory locker room, but here they seemed different—not just more feminine, but looking fresh and invigorated by their surroundings.
Caught by a sudden gust of wind the ball floated out of play and was carried over the fence where it bounced on the ground beside Queenie. The women stood smiling, waiting for her to return it. She realized she was being invited into their world.
She went to fetch the ball and prepared to throw it back, but feeling the airy lightness of the ball and the force of the breeze blowing against her, decided that more force might be needed to get it back to them. She opted for a drop-kick technique she had seen practiced at football games, swinging her leg back for maximum power before making the connection. As the point of her shoe made contact with the ball there was a dull popping sound and her toe speared its way into the center of the ball. Suddenly deflated by the impact, the ball no longer looked like a ball but something more akin to a swimming cap, dangling off the end of her foot. She shook it off and skimmed it back to them over the fence. It landed flatly on the grass like a dinner plate.
“Sorry. Don’t know quite what happened there. Must have been a fault in the plastic.”
Having burst both their physical and metaphorical balloon of contentment, she expected to be ostracized by the group, but the women seemed warmly forgiving.
“That’s OK. We were just about through with our game anyway. Why don’t you join us? We have plenty to eat,” said one closest to her.
“Thanks. That’s swell of you. Maybe later. Right now I’m on my way to see someone.”
The woman smiled. “Sure. Anytime.”
As they continued strolling up the hill, Queenie’s dog-owning companion decided it was time to introduce himself.
“You can call me Doc.”
“Doc? Are you a real doctor?”
“No, I’m not a real doctor. It’s just a name. What’s yours?”
“Queenie.”
“And are you a real queen?”
She smiled amiably, shaking her head. “I’m not a real countess either. I found this costume on the clothes rail in the … you know … movie theater.”
“Oh, sure. I know how that goes. You see something nice, you put it on.”
“I really wanted something to show off my legs. They’re my best feature.” She raised her skirt to show him.
“I don’t agree,” he said, looking down at them.
“You don’t?” Queenie was a little affronted; everyone told her she had good legs.
“Uh-uh. I’d say your best feature is—” Doc raised an index finger to make his point “—your personality.” He nodded sagely, letting the wisdom of his remark settle.
Queenie considered this. “My personality, huh? Well what do you know about that?”
As they arrived at a church with a tall spire, a woman approached them on the sidewalk from the other direction. She too was pushing a dog on wheels, this one a white Scottish terrier in need of a shampoo and set. The two dogs seemed drawn to each other, nuzzling nose to nose and gazing blindly into each other’s eyes. Their owners looked on like proud parents.
“They seem to be getting along,” the woman said.
&nbs
p; Doc agreed. “They do!”
“Dido and I were just heading to the park. Would you and …”
“Chummy.”
“… Chummy care to join us?”
“Why, thank you. We’d be delighted.” Doc turned to Queenie. “Your Majesty, it’s been a pleasure. I don’t see Mr Godfrey, but that’s Jimmy sitting over there on the wall.”
Queenie glanced at him then turned back to her companion. “Thanks, Doc. See you around.”
In the factory office, one of the Japanese women tried appealing to the soldiers.
“I am an American citizen. Look. Here’s my identity card.”
She shoved it under the nose of one of them, but he brushed it aside like a stubborn infant refusing to be fed. Another soldier herded her back in line.
A military police sergeant sat behind a desk checking names on a list. He made an impatient stab at pronouncing the Japanese names as if they had been invented deliberately to annoy him. Each attempt carried with it the added suggestion that he thought the names sounded stupid: Foo-ji-wara, Tacka-hashy, Yamma-goochy. When her name was called, the woman in question protested.
“I’m not Japanese; I’m Chinese. American actually, but my parents are Chinese.”
“Yamaguchi? That ain’t a Chinese name.”
He had a little US Army issue book, How To Spot A Jap, as a guide. He held up the open book for her to see. It showed exaggerated cartoon sketches of the perceived facial differences for comparison—Chinese (C) on one side, Japanese (J) on the other. The accompanying caption stated that C is dull bronze in color, while J is lighter—more on the lemon-yellow side. C’s eyes are set like any European’s or American’s, but have a marked squint. J has eyes slanted towards his nose. Look at their profiles and teeth. C usually has evenly set choppers; J has buck teeth. The Chinese smiles easily; the Jap expects to be shot … and is very unhappy about the whole thing.
The sergeant pointed first at the Chinese face—“That ain’t you”—and then at the Japanese face: “That’s you.” He set down the book. Case dismissed.
The sergeant made his announcement to the group. “Anyone with any Japanese ancestry, any Japanese blood at all, must be sent to a relocation center. You all saw the signs, read the notices in the newspapers. You were ordered to register at a relocation center on May fifth. Deadline for evacuation of all Japanese was May tenth. That, in case you didn’t know, was yesterday. You ignored the instructions, so now you’re being taken straight to one of the concentration camps. You have been classified as disloyals. You especially have been privy to sensitive military information here at this factory. You are therefore regarded as high-risk prisoners. You will not be permitted to take any personal belongings with you.”
Jimmy was taking a breather from tending his flock. He sat astride the churchyard wall, watching Howard Farmer’s unfaltering progress. Feeling pleasantly fatigued from working in the hot sunshine, Jimmy was stripped to the waist using his balled-up shirt to mop his brow and neck.
Queenie approached via the narrow path that ran alongside the church.
“Phew. Finally. I found you.”
Jimmy turned. Despite the rather different look the countess dress gave her he recognized her as the drum majorette he’d seen the day before. Surprised and rather thrilled to think that she might have been looking for him, he got to his feet, a little self-conscious.
Her eyes fleetingly took in his physique. Aware of her glance, he quickly put on his shirt, buttoning it with modest haste.
“I’m Queenie.” She thrust out her hand for him to shake.
He took it, nodding in greeting. “Jimmy.”
“Someone said you were Mr Godfrey’s assistant.”
Jimmy tucked in his shirttails. “Unofficially, I guess.”
“You make any of the decisions?”
“Of course. Overland is run on egalitarian principles.”
“What kind of principles?”
“Egalitarian.”
“Oh, OK. Would you care to see my pictures?”
“Pictures? Of what?”
“Of me. My portfolio.” She opened up the folder, and set it down on the top of the wall for him to see. “I’m getting some more up-to-date ones taken soon. I don’t like my hair in these. It’s blonder now, see?” She turned her head and smoothed the hair at her temple. “This photographer, Lex Foreman, took them. He’s semi-professional right now, but they’re pretty good I think. His aim was to showcase my versatility as well as my looks. Sure, I want to play glamorous leading women—who doesn’t? But casting directors need to be able to see I’m not just a one-trick pony. Like, for instance, you probably look at me and immediately think showgirl, socialite, girl about town. In short, a good-time girl. But I don’t always need to be having a good time.”
“No?”
“No. I’m perfectly happy to be slaughtered in my home by a tribe of marauding savages, or persecuted for my political beliefs by Basil Rathbone. And I’m just as comfortable being a barefoot native dying of some awful disease as I am being a straight-laced lady scientist discovering the cure for it. I don’t even mind being the daughter of a Welsh coal miner, like Maureen O’Hara in How Green Was My Valley, though between you and me, I can’t imagine anything more dreary. If you tell me the kind of part you’d want me to play, I can perhaps show you what I can do.”
“Well, actually …”
She turned the pages. “Here’s me looking sultry. You like that one?”
“It’s very nice, but—”
“Of course, I have a whole stack of cheesecake poses. That was the deal with Lex: he’d do my portraits free if I did some, you know, glamor-type pictures. They’re just pin-up shots, nothing indecent. I thought, well, it’s not as though pictures like that won’t come in handy. I’ve done a little glamor work, but I see myself more as a serious actress. I can sing too. How about I give you one of each? That way you get an idea of my range.”
She quickly assembled a sample of pictures and pressed them into Jimmy’s hand. He looked down, accepting them reluctantly.
“If you’re looking to play the part of a Resident here, all you’ve got to do is act natural,” he said.
“Well, you’ve said it there, haven’t you? Act natural. That’s the hardest thing in the world for an actress to do. There’s nothing guaranteed to make you feel more self-conscious than being told to act natural. When I was at high school our drama teacher, Mr Estler, used to yell at me to relax. In those days, I used to get a little stage fright; I’m over that now, of course. He’d get right in my face and yell RE-LAX!!!”
She lunged toward Jimmy and screamed the word inches from his face. Jimmy recoiled, visibly shaken by the outburst. He swallowed hard in an attempt to regain his composure. Queenie backed off, noting his nervousness.
“See what I mean? Pretty difficult to relax now, isn’t it?”
On the staircase, Kay too was feeling far from relaxed. She watched the military presence uneasily as the “Js” were led out across the factory floor towards the exit; she knew exactly what was going down. On his way out, the sergeant nodded thanks to Donaldson and was about to leave when Donaldson grabbed his arm. He pointed to the clipboard and spoke conspiratorially into the sergeant’s ear, gesturing in the direction of the welding bench where she and Queenie worked. With neither of them at their stations the sergeant’s eyes had no specific point of focus, but he seemed to understand what was being said. The soldiers headed towards the bench to investigate further as Donaldson’s searching gaze scoured the factory for the missing pair—or rather, Kay suspected, for her. She knew her number was up. Somebody must have checked up on her nationality, or identified the Chinese “birth certificate” as phony-baloney. Or it could simply have been that Donaldson wanted to get rid of her to satisfy some personal beef because he just didn’t like her face.
Being up on the staircase had so far kept Kay out of the line of fire. She remained motionless in an attempt to blend into her surroundings, but Donald
son always seemed to have other senses in play; she knew it was only a matter of time before he would radar in on her.
Kay looked up in desperate search of salvation. She had no choice other than to head upwards.
EIGHTEEN
KAY’S CHOSEN OUTFIT, or at least the one suggested to her by one of the Overland Residents, was a sky-blue skirt with black velvet bodice laced at the front over a white puff-sleeved blouse. In her hair, a long blue ribbon. White knee socks and shiny black pumps added to the look. It was a costume that might be appropriate for a peasant girl in a musical chorus, all swaying hips and a tra-la-la, or even a serving wench in ye olde tavern, but one that became the perfect emblem of innocence when worn by the eponymous character in a fairy-tale adventure: Snow White, Alice in Wonderland or Goldilocks. A girl in such a costume was almost certain to discover a special new world where animals could talk, dance, tell the time or be called upon to perform household chores.
As Kay stepped out into the daylight, a passing man reminded her that she was not wearing her Resident’s pin. Having seen Queenie’s she knew to what he was referring. She thanked him and told him that she would put it on momentarily, digging into her skirt pocket as if she was about to produce it.
As she headed cautiously along the main street she saw that Overland, the part of the film set beyond the lake that Queenie had described to her, was far bigger and more elaborate than she had expected. While much of it seemed make-believe and obviously fabricated—the colors too clean and bright, the vehicle and building designs too charmingly simple—the place seemed to have a genuine soul, the people in it part of a community.
She passed a house from which she could hear the sound of someone sawing wood: in out, in out, like the rasping breathing of an asthmatic dog after a long run. She spotted the blade of the saw intermittently protruding from a thin slit in the blank front wall and watched the back and forth movement until the blade had sawn a complete square, whereupon the cut piece fell with the clatter onto the front lawn, creating a window hole through which the occupant could now be seen: a young man with the saw in his hand. He waved a casual hello and Kay waved back. She felt sure she had seen him somewhere before—the young man on the motorbike at the bus stop? Was that him? She turned her head and moved quickly along in case he recognized her, even though, like the other people on the streets, he didn’t seem particularly curious about who she was or how she had got there.
