Fear In The Sunlight Part 7

'They killed him. There used to be an old cottage in the woodsa and they cornered him there like an animal. It was all conveniently brushed over, of course. There was a long and bitter history between the Gypsies and the men from the town a fights every summer when the camp arrived, accusations of vandalism and theft on both sides, rows over women. But the locals stuck together on this one, and the police weren't exactly diligent. As far as they were concerned, one less Gypsy in the world was a public service. Anyway, no one could prove who was ultimately responsible, and they could hardly arrest the whole mob.' She gave a heavy sigh. 'Grace was devastated, but at least May was dead by then. She never had to see it.'

'Surely the police could have worked a bit harder to find out who was to blame?' Josephine said, thinking about Archie and the personal responsibility he took for every case he worked on. 'You can't turn a blind eye to someone's death just because it's difficult.'

Bella was quiet for so long that Josephine began to wonder if she had finally overstepped the mark; the story, though freely told, was not hers to comment on. 'No,' the actress said eventually, but her tone was wistful rather than resentful. 'No, I don't suppose you can.'

Another couple sat down at the next table, and Josephine watched as the girl made a less than subtle gesture towards the film star. 'It must be difficult to try to make peace with your ghosts in the middle of a busy hotel.'

'It's probably the best thing that could have happened to the place. When something's too dark, covering it with glamour and glitz is the only way. Hollywood depends on it. I've done it all my life. But you're right a there are ghosts everywhere.' She leant forward and surprised Josephine by taking her hand. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I didn't realise it until you sat down, but I needed to talk to someone a someone who, sadly, I'll never meet again. You've been very kind, and you've helped me make my mind up.'

'Can I ask what about?'

Bella shook her head. 'No, I've said enougha and, if I'm right, you'll soon find out.' She looked up and withdrew her hand. 'Anyway, the power behind the throne has just arrived, and there's not a chance in h.e.l.l of an abdication there.'

'Miss Tey a I hope I haven't kept you waiting.' Alma Reville had changed into a rust silk-crepe evening dress which emphasised the auburn shades of her hair, and its formality, together with a perfect make-up, made her look older than she had at first seemed. Bella raised an eyebrow and subtly tapped her wrist, and Josephine couldn't resist a quick glance at her watch. It was precisely ten past six. 'What would you like to drink?' Alma asked. 'Shall we start with a Martini?'

'Why not? We can switch to something stronger later if I need it.'

'I hope you won't. Bella? Can I get you something?' The offer was formal, and Josephine noticed a cool civility between the two women. Alma seemed relieved when the actress declined and left them to it. She beckoned a waiter and ordered their c.o.c.ktails with an authority that suggested she was used to having people at her command, and a warmth which told Josephine that she never took it for granted. She nodded at the book which Josephine still held in her hand. 'Not much time for reading when Bella's around.'

'No, but I probably do too much of that anyway,' Josephine said, matching the subtlety of the probing in the way it was deflected. 'It's always easier to read other people's books than to write your own. I used to justify my time by calling it research. Now I'm just shameless about it.'

'I suppose I'm lucky. We're always looking for new projects, so I could call anything work and get away with it. I'm afraid it takes me for ever to read a novel, though. I can't pick one up without imagining every camera angle, or dramatising every scene and piece of dialogue.'

The comment was friendly enough, but that only made it more irritating. 'How interesting,' Josephine said before she could stop herself. 'Most authors rather imagine they've saved you the bother.'

To her credit, Alma looked embarra.s.sed. 'I'm sorry. That must have sounded very rude, but it wasn't intended to be. All I meant was that it's my job to see a story in pictures. I've been doing it since I was a teenager and it's a very hard habit to break.' She thought for a moment, choosing her words more carefully this time. 'A film can't just be a visual record of a book or it will never have a life of its own,' she said. 'You saw The 39 Steps?' Josephine nodded. 'And you must have read the book, so you'll know that most of the things that made it a great movie were entirely Hitch's invention a the love interest, Mr Memory, the scene at the London Palladium. It's those things that a film audience responds to, but none of them would have been possible without the book.' Josephine's scepticism must have been written all over her face, because Alma addeda 'It's like any marriage, I suppose. The two things can coexist if they're both good in their own right, and it doesn't have to be one at the expense of the other.' She smiled. 'I know what you're thinking: that's easy for me to say when it's not my book which is being vandalised. I can understand why you might feel protective.'

'Overprotective, probably, but that's only because this particular marriage is so uneven a when people start making books out of films, authors might relax a little.'

'And film-makers will bring a whole new meaning to the word indignation. Hitch hates it if a producer makes the slightest alteration to the way he's filmed something.' Their drinks arriveda and Alma picked the gla.s.s up gratefully. 'Can we start again?' she asked. 'I know how hypocritical it all must sound, but it's important that I'm honest with you from the start. If you allow us to base our film on A Shilling for Candles, changes will have to be made.'

'Such as?' Josephine asked, aware of how carefully the last sentence had been phrased.

'It's too early to say in any detail, but some characters will have a much bigger role and others will go altogether. Your plot won't necessarily be our plot, and you might be surprised at how quickly our storyline diverges from the one you've written. Some of the changes you'll hate; others a I hope a you'll understand, and even like.'

Josephine admired her frankness, even if she was a little unsettled by it. 'And I dare say none of those changes would be detrimental to the book's sales,' she said wryly. 'Or to the box-office receipts.'

Alma raised her gla.s.s. 'That much we can agree on.'

'Tell me a if your husband wants to use so little of my story, why don't you just go ahead and write your own? Surely that would save you the trouble of consulting anyone?'

'Because the idea is yours, and it seems right to recognise that a financially and creatively. We could just develop the movie from it in our own way without giving you or the book any credit whatsoever. I've seen that happen, but it's not how we do things.'

It was an honourable att.i.tude, although Josephine couldn't help thinking that the other way might be kinder in the long run. She noticed how naturally Alma referred to the work as a joint endeavour, and began to understand the extent to which when people spoke of a Hitchc.o.c.k film they were unconsciously referring to a partnership. 'How do you choose which ideas to work on?' she asked, genuinely interested.

'We read the review pages, see new plays in the West End, wade through ma.n.u.scripts.' She smiled. 'And sometimes we get a nudge in the right direction. Miss Fox did us a favour. When she gave us your book, we were rather stuck.'

'Oh?'

Alma hesitated, and Josephine sensed she was gauging how honest she could be without causing offence. 'To be quite frank, Miss Tey, we were hoping for another John Buchan, but he was far too busy being Governor General of Canada even to see us.'

Josephine laughed and finished her Martini. She looked directly at Alma. 'Does either of you actually like the book, Miss Reville?'

'My husband sees its potential,' she said diplomatically, but then spoke far more warmly. 'And I like the book, Miss Tey. I like it very much, and I'd be delighted if you'd consider working on it with us.'

'Oh, I don't know about that. Other than a twice-weekly visit to the cinema, I know nothing about the film world. As you say, it's very different from writing a novel.'

'But not so different from writing a play. A lot of the best screenwriters come from the theatre and we'd be lucky to have you, so don't dismiss it.' She accepted a cigarette and leant forward to have it lit. 'I often think I'd like to write a novel, you know, if only because I could do that on my own.'

It was the first time that Alma had hinted at a professional ambition which existed independently from her husband's career, and it surprised Josephine. 'I got the impression that the partnership was as important to you as the work,' she said. 'Wouldn't you miss that?'

'Of course, but it can't go on for ever and I'll need something to take its place.' She signalled for more drinks, and answered Josephine's questioning glance. 'Don't get me wrong: I love being part of a team, but it's not always like that now. The team is becoming an organisationa and organisations are always about power, even if their business is a creative one.' She sighed, and absent-mindedly twisted her wedding ring. 'I'll always support Hitch, of course I will. He involves me in everything he doesa and my opinion is invariably the one he listens to, even at the expense of his own, but it's the sort of support that a wife gives a husband. If a when a he goes to America, there'll be no place for me as his equal. Not in other people's minds, anyway.'

'If it were me, I'd resent that.'

'I don't know how I'll feel,' Alma said honestly. 'And I won't until it happens. Back when we started, we didn't think about the future. It was just a case of muddling through together, trying things out and doing the best we could. Film wasn't really any older than we were, so there were no rules. That sense of adventure isn't there any more; we all have to pretend we know exactly what we're doing.' She smiled. 'It's been replaced by other excitements, of course, and by opportunities which we could only dream of back then. Still, I miss it.'

'How did you start?' Josephine asked. 'Marta told me that you were involved in cinema before your husband.'

'Yes, I was about four years ahead of him,' Alma said, although there was no hint of compet.i.tiveness in her voice. 'When I was young we lived in Twickenham, just round the corner from the London Film Company studios. My father worked in the costume department therea and he used to take me to work with him. I fell in love with it the moment I first walked on a set, and that hasn't changed.' Josephine could understand that: she had never been inside a film studio in her life, but the magic of the cinema had captivated her since she was a childa and she would never forget the first time her mother had taken her to see something. It was just the two of them, one of those precious times which she guarded jealously as a privilege of being the oldest daughter, and back in the days when films were shown in converted shops or halls rather than designated cinemas. She had no idea which picture they had been to see, but it didn't matter; it was the sudden connection to a more adventurous, more romantic world that had excited her, a sense of escape which stayed with her to this day. 'As soon as I could, I got a job there,' Alma continued. 'I started right at the bottom and made myself useful by doing every odd job I could find. It was the best way to develop the technical skills I needed to get on.'

'You weren't tempted to try the other side of the camera?'

'What teenage girl wasn't? But I soon realised that there was far more security as a technician than as an actress, and I've always been blessed with a practical streak.'

'But it was still very glamorous, I suppose.'

'Yes and no. The job itself was very tedious and very precise, and these have paid the price for it,' she said, pointing to her eyes. 'You don't cut and splice films by hand for a living if you want to hang on to your eyesight, but I wouldn't have had it any other way.'

'Did your husband work his way up in the same way?'

'Yes, he started by designing t.i.tle cards. The first time I set eyes on him, he was carrying an enormous package of them under his arm. He was very confident, even then.' She smiled, more to herself than at Josephine. 'The studio was like a second home to me. I loved watching people's first reactions to it a the lights and the cameras and the noise of technicians shouting at each other. It intimidated most people, but not Hitch; he just walked calmly across the floor to the production office like he'd been born to it.'

'And that impressed you?'

'To be honest, I thought he was a bit snooty. His first words were a job offera and I was grateful for it: the studios had made a lot of people redundant by then and I'd been out of work for months. I suppose you could say it worked. We've been together ever since.' Her warmth had a wistful quality to it, but Josephine could still sense the enthusiasm she felt for those early days and the excitement that such a partnership must have inspired. 'We had no inkling of what was to come,' she added, more cynically this time. 'No thought of sound or colour. Or of money, and how a business can make and destroy people.'

'You're not selling it to me,' Josephine said doubtfully. 'I think I'll stay on the outside.'

Alma laughed. 'Don't let me put you off. We're by no means typical. It doesn't have to be your life, and plenty of people manage to keep it in perspective. Marta, for example. The work she's done on The Pa.s.sing of the Third Floor Back has been excellent, and she doesn't seem to have suffered for dabbling in a murky world. Just the opposite, in fact.'

'I know she enjoyed it.'

'I got the impression it was more than that. She needed it. Ora rather, she needed the satisfaction it gave her to do it well.' Josephine looked at her and realised that she never missed a thing. It was true: Marta's life had been unsettled for years, but Josephine knew from her letters that she had gained a new confidence from the work that Alma Reville had offered her. 'Of course, it's harder for women in film these days. Back in the 1920s, when everyone thought it was an adventure that was going nowhere, there were plenty of opportunities; now there's money in it, the men are suddenly taking themselves very seriously and those chances are fewer. But Hitch is different.'

'You make sure of that, I imagine.'

'I do my bit.' She winked conspiratorially. 'Whatever its faults, there's a lot of satisfaction in the work. Perhaps I shouldn't have given you an insider's view.'

'It's not just that. I'd miss the magic of it if I got too close. I don't want to see the nuts and bolts of how a film is made, the friction and the egos and the jealousies. Selfishly, I don't want it spoilt.'

'Do people disappoint you, Miss Tey?'

The question came from nowhere, and Josephine was taken aback by it. 'What a strange thing to ask,' she said.

'Not really. I was thinking about the murder victim in your book. For a dead woman, she speaks very eloquently and I rather thought there was a lot of you in her.' As Josephine hesitated, she addeda 'Perhaps what I really mean is there's a lot of me in her. We seem to have a great deal in common, and not just being born into a Nottingham lace family.'

'In what way?' Josephine asked, but she was still considering Alma's question. It was the second time in half an hour that she had been compared to Christine Clay. Now she thought about it, it was true: a lot of what she had put into that character did reflect her own att.i.tudes, but she was surprised it was so obvious to strangers.

'It's what someone says about her going from Nottingham to the top of the film world and how fame propels you through such different social spheres so quickly that you lose sight of who you are. I think you likened it to a diver coming up from a long way down and continually adjusting to the pressure?' Josephine nodded. 'You don't use an image like that unless you know how it feels. And I suspect that keeping people guessing is your sh.e.l.l, just as it was hers.'

'I suppose so, although clearly that sh.e.l.l isn't as protective as I thought it was.'

'Oh, I don't know. From what we've been able to find out about you, it's reasonably effective a no interviews, nothing personal in the public domain, in fact. My husband calls you a Theodora.' Josephine shruggeda and Alma explained. 'She's a character in a Capra picture who writes a best-seller which is scandalous to the society she moves in.'

'I'd hardly call a detective novel scandalous.'

'Of course not, but it sets you apart from what you were born to. Does your family really like what you do? Does the town you grew up in celebrate your success, or resent you a little for it? Can you be yourself there?' Alma took Josephine's smile to mean she was right. 'I know how that feels,' she said, 'and it's bound to affect you in some way. At least America will be an improvement in that sense: there's no cla.s.s system like there is in England.'

'You're surely not telling me that Hollywood doesn't have its own hierarchies?' Josephine asked. 'America might be too new to call it cla.s.s, but there'll be something set up by now to keep everyone looking over their shoulders.' The more personal turn which the conversation had taken would normally have made Josephine uncomfortable, but she found she liked Alma more for her honesty and it made her want to respond in kind. 'In answer to your original question, yes a I suppose people do disappoint me. Perhaps it's the times we've lived througha but we seem very good at destroying each other, and not just through wars. We wear each other down all the time through little acts of jealousy or cruelty or greed. I look at people's faces in the street, and so very few of them are happy; mostly they're tired or worried or angry a or just bewildered.' She ran her finger around the rim of her gla.s.s, thinking. 'When was the last time you stood in a crowd and felt contentment?' she asked. 'Not in a theatre or cinema a we go there to escape, so they don't count. I mean a crowd of ordinary people doing everyday things like shopping or queuing for a bus?' This time, it was Alma's turn to have no answer. 'And most of all I disappoint myself,' Josephine admitted, thinking about her feelings for Marta and how they threatened her friendship with Lydia, not to mention her own integrity and peace of mind. 'We all like to think we're above that, but sooner or later we meet someone who shows us what we're really capable of. That's never a very comfortable realisation.'

'No. No, it isn't.' Reluctantly, Alma looked at her watch. 'I must go and get Hitch for dinner,' she said, 'but perhaps we can continue this conversation later. And whatever you decide about working on a screenplay with us, I hope I haven't put you off a film of your book altogether.'

'Of course not, but I'll need some time to think about it.' Alma noddeda and they walked out onto the terrace together. 'Would you involve Marta in the adaptation?' Josephine asked, glancing over to where she sat with Lydia.

'I'm afraid not. She'd never be ruthless enough with your work. You have quite a fan there, but I'm sure you know that already.' Josephine felt herself blush and looked away. 'It's a shame. She'd have made an excellent job of it. But I suppose the benefits of friendship outweigh a decent script. As my husband would say, it's only a movie.'

'Aren't you worried that it will affect your marriage?' Josephine asked. 'The fame, I mean, and Hollywood. Do you ever worry that you might be on the receiving end of that ruthlessness one day?'

'All the time, and I've no doubt it will happen sooner rather than later. But we love each other, Miss Tey, and more importantly we understand each other. We were both lonely children, unpopular at school, solitary within our own families. Hitch often says that's where he gets his imagination from: he was forced to live in it for so long. In a sense, we've given each other the life we never thought we'd have, and that's a very strong bond. I'm confident it can withstand most of the challenges we throw at it.'

What Alma brought to the partnership was obvious to Josephine, but what she received in exchange was less clear. 'What's the most important thing about your marriage?' she asked. 'The thing that prevents it from being one of you at the expense of the other?'

There was no hesitation about the response. 'In the ten years we've been together, my husband has never once bored me, Miss Tey.' She smiled and held out her hand. 'How many wives can say that?'

3.

Branwen had known the journey would be a waste of time even before she set out. As she hurried to her room to change at the end of her afternoon shift, she thought about the miles and hours she had clocked up going to that house only to be greeted by drawn curtains and locked doors, and there was no reason to suppose that today would be any different. But still she had gone, because the victory was hers and she needed Gwyneth Draycott to know that all her secrecy had been in vain. Gwyneth wasn't the only one who knew what had happened to Branwen's mother, and Branwen couldn't care less where the truth came from as long as it was told. She had spent years pretending that it didn't matter. Only in that second when Bella Hutton had agreed to talk to her could she finally admit to herself that it did, that her life so far had been entirely defined by her mother's absence, a life of half-truths and silence and wondering.

With her message safely delivered, Branwen cycled back to the hotel, grateful that most of the return journey was downhill. Her dress stuck to her skina and she took first one hand and then the other off the handlebars, trying without much success to wipe the sweat off her palms. She was too preoccupied with the heat and the evening ahead to concentrate much on where she was going, and, as she rounded a bend on the wrong side of the road, she had to swerve quickly into a pa.s.sing place to avoid a car coming the other way. In her panic, she braked far too sharplya and the bicycle skidded from under her on some loose stones, sending her crashing to the ground. She lay there for a moment, dazed, until the angry hooting had faded into the distance and all she could hear was her front wheel spinning uselessly in the air, then got gingerly to her feet. Her stockings were torn and her left leg badly grazed below the knee where it had taken the brunt of her fall. No wonder it hurt so much: some idiot had left a broken beer bottle behinda and small shards of gla.s.s mixed with dirt had embedded themselves in her skin. Wincing, she bent down and removed the worst of it, but was dismayed to find that her bike had fared even worse than she had: the back tyre was completely flat, punctured by the neck of the bottle, and she still had two miles to go. Blinking back tears of frustration, Branwen started to half wheel, half carry the offending machine along the road, but she hadn't got far before she heard another car coming up behind her, the expensive one that had been parked over near the Draycott house. The driver pulled in to the side when he saw her, and she recognised him as the film star who was staying at the hotel.

'You look as though you could do with some help,' he said, getting out.

Branwen smiled. 'It's not my lucky day, I don't reckon. Those nylons cost me a week's tips.'

'Never mind the stockings. That looks nasty.' He took a handkerchief from his top pocket and put it to his mouth to wet it. 'Here a it needs bathing.' She thought he was going to pa.s.s it to her but he knelt down to do it himself. 'This might sting a bit. Be brave.'

'Quite the hero, aren't you?' Branwen said, looking down at him. 'On screen and off.' His frown confused her for a moment, then she noticed the lines under his eyes and the grey at his temples and realised that he thought she was making fun of him. 'When I was a kid, I used to want to be Mae Murray just so I could dance with you,' she added. 'Can't say I've grown out of it.'

Her sincerity seemed to convince Turnbull. 'You obviously have me at a disadvantage,' he said, and she struggled to a.s.sociate the voice with the face she knew from the screen. 'What's your name?'

'Branwen.'

'Well, Branwen a can I give you a lift back to the hotel? If that's where you were going, of course.' He looked doubtfully at the bicycle. 'We can probably fit this in the back.'

'Oh, don't worry. It's my day off tomorrow and I can come and pick it up then. No one's going to pinch it in that state, are they? Come to think of it, I might just leave the d.a.m.ned thing where it is for all the use it's been.' She smiled at him and ran her hand approvingly along the side of the car. 'I'd be ever so grateful for a lift, though. I can't afford to be late this evening, and this looks like it'll get me back in no time. Feel like a real movie star, I will.'

He lifted the bicycle over the hedge where it couldn't be seen from the road and opened the door for her. 'What's so special about tonight?' he asked, pressing the starter. 'Business or pleasure?'

'Bit of both, I suppose. I sing with the band sometimes. Nothing special about that a I've been doing it for years a but it's not every night you get Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k in the audience.'

'No, I don't suppose it is.'

His response was half-hearted, and she put it down to his familiarity with everything she found so exciting; even glamour must fade eventually, she supposed, although he should try doing her job for a few days if he wanted to know what boredom really was. 'I suppose you can afford to be blase about it when you're one of them,' she teased. 'The rest of us have to grab our fun when we can.' She settled back into her seat, enjoying the smell and feel of the leather. 'So what's Mr Hitchc.o.c.k like, then? You must know him well.'

'Hitch? I've known him for years.' That wasn't quite the same thing, Branwen thought, but she didn't interrupt him. 'I knew from the first time I met him that he was bound for great things: he was always such a talented boy.' She half listened while he reminisced about his early days in film, mentioning a lot of names she vaguely recognised but telling her very little about Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k. 'And I have to say, it's nice to be working with him again. I'll introduce you if you like. He's always pleased to meet a talented young lady.' He glanced quickly across at her and addeda 'Unless Bella Hutton's already offered? I saw you talking to her earlier.'

'You don't miss much, do you?'

'Can't afford to in my business. And Bella is so rarely nice that one tends to notice when it happens.'

He smiled at her, but there was a bitterness in his voice which made her wary. She hadn't come this far only to ruin everything by making Bella Hutton think that she couldn't be trusted. Anyway, having spent years speculating about her mother with anyone who would listen, Branwen found that the prospect of knowing the truth was something so precious that she wanted to keep it to herself; to talk about it before it actually happened would be to tempt fate. 'No, she didn't mention Mr Hitchc.o.c.k,' she said truthfully. 'And I'd love to meet him. Thank you.'

She tried to change the subject, but, for someone so self-absorbed, Turnbull was remarkably persistent. 'So what pearls of wisdom was Bella sharing with you?' he asked.

'It was nothing like that. She was just talking about how different Portmeirion is now from how she remembers it.' It was only half a lie: Bella Hutton had made it clear by her att.i.tude that she considered her time there to be a different life altogether, but that had nothing to do with a changing landscape. 'She's a bit of a heroine for us local girls. We read about her in the magazines and just for a minute we think her story could be ours. I suppose that sounds daft.'

'Not at all,' he said, then added mockingly: 'Especially if you marry well and divorce in style.'

He slowed the car down as they entered Minffordd village and turned left at the post office. 'You're not local as well, are you?' she asked curiously.

'Good G.o.d, no,' he said, laughing. 'What on earth makes you think that?'

'Just that you seem to know your way round, and I saw your car parked out by the old Draycott house.' He shrugged; the name seemed to mean nothing to him. 'It's that big place by the water, over on the other side.'

'I didn't really take much notice of it. Someone told me how magical the village looks from the other side of the estuary and I wanted to see it for myself. They were right: it's breathtaking. But now you mention it, that house does look like it's seen better days.'

'You're right there. The same woman's lived there for years and she hardly ever leaves the place. G.o.d knows what it's like inside.'

'Seems like a big house for one person to rattle around in.'

'She's got her ghosts, I suppose. Mad as a badger, Gwyneth is a everyone says so. My grandmother always said it ran in the family.' It wasn't all her grandmother said: Branwen could have filled a book with what she had heard about the Draycott family while she was growing up, and none of it good. 'Can't say I blame the woman, mind. A Gypsy ran off with her kid, so it's not surprising if she's not the full shilling, is it?'