Shot in Southwold Page 3

  ‘One of Hector Klein’s casualties. They had a spectacular bust-up a couple of months ago; and as she was at a loose end, and to stop her banging on about Hector’s beastliness, I asked if she would like to join the cast.’ He frowned. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time and I’ve given her quite a significant part. With luck it will work; she’s certainly got plenty of zest.’

  ‘Is she amusing?’ Cedric asked.

  Bartholomew reflected. ‘She thinks she is.’

  ‘Ah – tedious you mean.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

  ‘But verging?’ Felix suggested.

  The young man shrugged and smiled. ‘Verging or not, the point is she’s got the looks plus all the confidence to prance about in front of a camera. With a bit of polish she could be most useful. If our leading man, Robert Kestrel, does his stuff the scenes between them might be rather good.’

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘And what is his stuff exactly?’ he enquired with interest.

  ‘He smoulders.’

  ‘He does what?’

  ‘Smoulders – it’s his forte. He likes being dark and brooding.’

  ‘You mean like Mr Rochester?’ Felix asked brightly.

  ‘More like Marlon Brando, I should say. He met him once in New York. I gather Brando shook his hand, mumbled for twenty seconds, lit a cigarette and then went silent. Ever since then Kestrel has gone around declaring the chap is his mentor.’

  ‘So apart from smouldering, what’s his normal job?’ Felix asked.

  ‘He’s an insurance clerk in Surbiton.’

  As a lavish provider of blooms for the Queen Mother, and in any case being far more concerned with his own part, Felix was unimpressed. He was about to quiz Bartholomew about this part, when the latter looked at his watch, gave a gasp of horror and said that he had to dash as he had been summoned for a drink with Lady Fawcett at The Swan.

  ‘You never know,’ he chortled, ‘she may become my future mother-in-law. Mustn’t keep the lady waiting, and I’ve got to take this stuff back to the studio first.’ He stood up and started to gather his impedimenta from the porch.

  ‘But what about my—’ began Felix.

  ‘Oh, it’s frightfully subtle,’ the other said hastily over his shoulder. ‘But don’t worry, all will be revealed tomorrow!’ So saying, he threw himself on to his saddle and pedalled precariously towards the high street.

  Felix was none too pleased at such scant information; and after the visitor had gone grumbled crossly to his friend. However, he was mollified by Cedric’s assurances that the Southwold bouillabaisse was bound to be a performance of the most exquisite artistry. It was too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Refreshed after her bath, and relishing the prospect of a drink, Rosy went downstairs to investigate the bar. She was rather earlier than arranged, and at that hour and with only two other people present, the room was pleasantly quiet. She ordered a dry sherry and wondered if she should do the same for Angela, but decided against it. Other than a penchant for champagne, Rosy knew little of her companion’s preferences, and it was frustrating to be faced with a drink not of one’s own choice. Thus, taking her sherry, she settled in a comfortable chair at the side of the bar and awaited events.

  She contemplated the arrival of Bartholomew Hackle and hoped she would like him, though by all accounts he sounded pleasant enough. Angela had said he was bound to be late as she had never known a Hackle that wasn’t. Well, if so, it hardly mattered: they weren’t going anywhere and the surroundings were very agreeable.

  She looked around at the softly lit room and at the couple sitting near the door. They were a striking pair: the young woman’s dark auburn hair was long and wavy, and she wore a close-fitting dress that flattered a fulsome figure. The man was handsome in a rugged, sultry sort of way … nice if you liked the style. Rosy did not especially. They were smoking, and talking earnestly in low voices; but the girl broke off to put on her wrap, and then with eyes scanning the room, stood up abruptly. ‘Oh, do let’s move,’ Rosy heard her say, ‘that doorway is hellishly draughty. I shall get a stiff neck, and that won’t suit His Nibs at all!’ She laughed and led the way to another table near to Rosy’s.

  ‘So what’s your agent like?’ her companion asked as he put down the drinks.

  She shrugged. ‘Could do better. Willing enough I suppose, but not exactly a go-getter. That’s why I’ve had to take this current bit of nonsense – a useful stopgap while I look for a brighter spark.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t have to look far – not someone with your talent, sweetie. They’ll be falling over themselves to have you on their books, and doubtless an MGM scout is prowling Wardour Street even as we speak. Just be patient, Cleopatra!’ The man laughed and blew her a smoke ring. ‘Oh, and talking of sparks, guess who is joining our merry throng. It’s—’

  She cut him short. ‘I know exactly who you are going to say: it’s that bloody Tildred brat. Bartho must be mad; she’s such a frightful little show-off and can’t act for toffee – though with that absurd cropped hair she obviously thinks she is Jean Seberg. I tell you, she minces about like some cretinous fairy!’

  ‘Hmm, but as cretinous fairies go, rather cute wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Oh yes: cute as a pain in the arse,’ the girl agreed coldly.

  At that moment Lady Fawcett appeared in the doorway, garnished in pearls and swathed in Je Reviens.

  ‘Ah, Rosy dear, I’ve just caught that nice waiter in the hall and ordered a bottle of Moët for the three of us. A little treat to prompt good fortune! I’ve told him we’ll have it in the lounge.’

  Rosy followed the wafting scent, pleased at the prospect of champagne but slightly regretful not to hear more of her neighbours’ views. If the two were who she guessed them to be, perhaps more might be learnt the following day!

  As they entered the lounge they almost collided with a tall young man in a suit, looking slightly dishevelled. ‘I do apologise,’ he exclaimed breathlessly, ‘in a bit of a hurry … Ah, it’s you, Lady Fawcett! So sorry, I thought I was going to be fearfully late.’ He beamed engagingly.

  ‘Yes, I did wonder,’ Angela replied, ‘but your arrival is most timely: we’re just about to split a bottle.’ She smiled and began to make introductions, but was diverted by the waiter bearing an ice bucket and enquiring where they would be sitting. She drifted towards a corner alcove.

  Hackle hovered. ‘You must be Rosy Gilchrist,’ he said. ‘Amy thinks you are splendid – she is always going on about you.’

  ‘Oh dear, how boring for you,’ Rosy laughed. ‘But I can return the compliment: you are the great movie mogul, Mr Bartholomew Hackle.’ Even as she said it, she realised he had been the boy on the bicycle talking to Felix.

  He laughed. ‘Exactly. But named not after the martyred and flayed saint, but that rather precocious child star, the angelic Freddie Bartholomew … Actually, I was christened Herbert after my grandfather, but once Ma had been entranced by the boy’s smile in David Copperfield she insisted otherwise. Probably as well: I don’t think I could have coped with Herb Hackle – Bartholomew’s bad enough.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s a very distinguished name – though possibly a bit of a mouthful?’

  ‘Only if one has a mincing mouth,’ the other replied, and then doubled up in a spasm of mirth. Rosy was vaguely reminded of the absent Amy. Once recovered, he explained that actually his close friends called him Bartho and that she was welcome to do so. Rosy smiled, and with suitably pursed lips said she would consider it an honour.

  By this time they had joined their hostess, who, with the wine poured, was clearly poised for refreshment. ‘We must toast the film,’ she said gaily. ‘Is there a title?’

  ‘It’s called The Languid Labyrinth,’ the mogul informed her solemnly.

  Lady Fawcett blinked slightly. ‘How nice,’ she said, and raised her glass.

  The hour passed quickly and agreeably. Some of the talk was taken up with Amy in Shropshire and
the exploits of Mr Bates, who, according to Lady Fawcett, was reported to be in good spirits (as well he might, Rosy thought); but inevitably it was the film that was the main topic.

  ‘So apart from its intriguing title,’ Lady Fawcett enquired, ‘what actually goes on?’

  Bartho took a deep breath, and accepting his second glass began to explain. ‘It is deeply metaphysical with a burgeoning complexity, and ostensibly deals with the Battle of Sole Bay of the seventeenth century (which is why the Southwold location is so vital) and with ravaged Europe of the indeterminate future. There is a sort of subtle interchange between the two periods and places, which entails a lot of cutting back and forth, and—’

  ‘Why ostensible?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “ostensible”. What’s the significance?’

  ‘Ah well, that’s an aspect of the labyrinth. You see nothing is quite what it seems and at any moment one could take a turn into the past or into the future. And then sometimes the protagonists arrive at a T-junction, which marks the moment of existential crisis, and when they must make the Kierkegaardian leap and decide whether to plunge back into the Sole Bay fiasco with all its snares and tensions, or forward to the Somme … uhm, though it could even be the last war and Tobruk, we haven’t quite decided yet. Anyway, the point is that some of the combatants are left quivering on the cusp … which is where Felix comes in.’

  ‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Rosy, ‘whatever happens to him?’

  ‘Ultimately he fades into the unknown, but his essential role is cuspian and he moves hesitantly between past and future, a sort of spectral Janus figure: a pensive observer linking the personal carnage of Sole Bay with the vortex of the Somme.’

  ‘Or Tobruk,’ murmured Lady Fawcett.

  ‘Does Felix know this yet?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘No, but he will tomorrow. Everyone’s gathering in the morning for a preliminary briefing at HQ, Cousin Walter’s barn of a place on the East Cliff. And then if it all goes to schedule we’ll shoot the first couple of scenes in the afternoon. You’ll enjoy those: there’s a torrid love scene set in the drawing room of Admiral Daventry just before the battle. I’ve put that in at the beginning to grip the audience before moving on to the deeper stuff.’

  Lady Fawcett cleared her throat. ‘How wise,’ she murmured.

  ‘This love scene,’ Rosy said, ‘does it feature a good-looking girl with long legs and auburn hair?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like our Alicia all right – why, do you know her?’

  Rosy explained that she had seen such a one in the bar earlier on. ‘There was a man with her, broad shoulders and heavy brows.’

  ‘Oh, bound to be Kestrel,’ Bartho replied. ‘He’s quite a stalwart in his way; not a pro like Alicia (well she’s a sort of pro, got her Equity card) but he’s a keen amateur and is rather strong on doing silent masterful stuff. They’ve acted together before, some charity thing at the Guildhall last year. They were pretty good, actually, so with luck they’ll deliver the goods.’ He paused, and then added, ‘Did you say you had seen them here?’

  Rosy nodded.

  ‘Ah, then they’re probably staying; that would explain why there’s been no sign of them at the studio. Most of the others have dossed down in the bedrooms. It’s a big house, but I don’t blame them for preferring this place – rather more creature comforts.’ He grinned, and then looking at his watch, exclaimed, ‘Crikey, time for the kitchen! Our gaffer is arriving tonight, the chief cameraman, and he’s bound to want a big fry-up plus chips. I must get back and start on the potatoes; he loves them, and so does Pixie. She can’t get enough of them.’

  With fond farewells, and urging them to attend the shooting of the next day’s opening scene, Bartholomew Hackle took his leave; and from the lounge window they glimpsed him crouched over handlebars, pedalling furiously in the direction of the seafront.

  ‘It’s very nice that he has culinary interests, don’t you think?’ observed Lady Fawcett once he was out of sight. ‘I mean, that will be so good for Amy should things become serious – her cooking is hopeless.’ She paused, and then added, ‘And, uhm … who is Pixie?’

  Rosy said that she had no idea, but whoever the lady was she clearly had a good appetite.

  The other agreed and lapsed into silence, but after a moment said ruminatively: ‘You know, I don’t think my Gregory would have been terribly keen on this film. The last one we saw together was The Lady Vanishes. Now that was awfully good, and we both enjoyed it so! But I can’t help feeling that this one is just a trifle complicated – at least, I am sure dear Gregory would have thought so. Strange really; despite all those years in the diplomatic service, he much preferred things to be obvious and straightforward, could never abide muddle …’ She gave a wistful sigh.

  ‘Yes, it does sound a bit oblique,’ Rosy agreed, ‘but I think it’s something to do with the “New Wave” genre, which is currently so fashionable in France and Italy. It’s beginning to get a following here too – so I suppose one might say Bartholomew is in the vanguard.’

  Lady Fawcett intimated that on the whole she might prefer the ‘Old Wave’ but that doubtless all would become clear once the cameras had ‘started to roll’, and that meanwhile there was a simpler matter in prospect: supper. Handing Rosy one of the menus, she said, ‘I don’t normally eat steak – too much for me – but I suspect tomorrow may be a gruelling day, mentally at any rate. A good dose of protein might be advisable; I shall opt for the tournedos. What about you, Rosy dear?’

  Over dinner they continued to discuss the film and speculated on Felix’s role. ‘It does sound a little nebulous,’ Lady Fawcett remarked, ‘I hope it won’t strain his sensibilities; I think he was expecting something more defined.’

  ‘I don’t know about his sensibilities,’ Rosy grinned, ‘but if it’s too ill-defined it will certainly strain his ego. And I doubt whether the idea of his fading into the unknown, as Bartho implied, will be entirely to his taste.’

  The other wagged a finger in mock rebuke. ‘Ah, but while he lasts I am sure his performance will be masterly. A cameo part – isn’t that what they call it? He’ll dine out on it for months.’ She smiled benignly.

  Sipping coffee in the lounge, Rosy described the conversation she had overheard in the bar. ‘Bartholomew may be glad to have those two heading the cast,’ she said, ‘but I had the impression that the Alicia lady was none too pleased about one of the other members: she referred to her as “that Tildred brat”, and seemed very put out that she would be here.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose such petty rivalries are to be expected – after all, they are thespians! I remember when Gregory’s department in our Paris embassy put on the Christmas pantomime, there was a tremendous kerfuffle among the—’ Lady Fawcett broke off and frowned. ‘Did you say the name was Tildred?’

  Rosy nodded. ‘Yes, but I didn’t catch the first name. Why, does it ring a bell?’

  ‘Possibly. The term “brat” suggests youth or adolescence. I wonder if it’s the same Tildred girl who used to be a kind of appendage to the Carshaltons … you know, Tom Carshalton, that rather earnest MP in Kensington; he’s her uncle or his wife is the aunt, something like that. Anyway, she used to stay with them occasionally when she was a schoolgirl … rather a feeble little thing in those days – whiney and always seemed to have a cold.’

  Rosy remarked that in that case she had better watch out for the winds on the East Cliff. ‘If she’s feeble she might catch a chill and get the sniffles – not something to impress the cameramen.’

  ‘Ah, but I don’t think she is feeble now, not if it’s the one I am thinking of; rather the reverse, really. She was at the Astleys’ dance last month. One gathered she had just been sacked from some drama or ballet school, not that it seemed to bother her. A bit showy and pushy, I thought – not quite comme il faut, if you take my meaning.’ She paused, and then added, ‘If it is her, I just hope she doesn’t distract Bartholomew.’

  ‘Is
she likely to?’

  ‘Very likely,’ was the grim reply.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day, despite the success of the bouillabaisse, Felix seemed twitchy; and Cedric guessed he was worried about the studio induction scheduled for that morning. He assured his friend that once Bartholomew had divulged more of the plot and explained Felix’s part in it things would go swimmingly – adding that Felix’s stylish attire and amiable manner were bound to impress everybody. ‘Absolutely no need to feel nervous,’ he had said. ‘And you’ll see, once the shooting starts you’ll act ’em off the set!’

  Felix had thanked him for his kind words, but stressed that he wasn’t the least bit nervous, merely in a mood of heightened anticipation – such as doubtless beset even his gracious patron on the rare occasions when she was faced with the unknown.

  Cedric was about to say, ‘You mean when one of the corgis has bolted?’ but thought better of it.

  As it happened, such concern proved unnecessary, initially at least. Bartholomew telephoned, full of apologies, to say that owing to a contretemps with his car, Fred, the vital cameraman, had been forced to delay his previous night’s arrival, and instead would be appearing that morning at Darsham Railway Station. As Bartholomew would have to motor over to collect him, the briefing was postponed until later that afternoon.

  So with a sunny day in prospect, they decided to take the opportunity to saunter around the town, imbibing the sea air and bracing draughts of Adnams’ ale. With wartime memories still upon him, Cedric was eager to show Felix some of his old haunts – something which, due to the pressing events of their previous visit, he had been unable to do. ‘We might also go down and have a look at those smart beach huts,’ he suggested. ‘They have become quite a feature. Although of course when I was here in forty-two, that part of the promenade was covered in tank traps and barbed wire entanglements. It’s less encumbered now and distinctly more decorative!’