101 Pieces of Me (6 page)

My cheeks were still pink when I returned to the dressing room. Maria gave me a curious look but said nothing. I refused Jeanette’s offer to accompany me to dinner and ordered it in my room instead. Unable to fight down my nervousness, I ate very little, made a sketchy, shivery toilette in the hotel bathroom, and went to bed.

I lay awake for a long time, planning not only my own conduct in front of the rest of the cast but also how to deal with Aidan Tobias. I dreaded having to do scenes again and again because he had wrecked them. I went over and over things to say and ways to behave that might discourage him. I toyed with the idea of throwing a tantrum, leading-lady style, threatening to walk off the set unless he behaved himself. But I soon dismissed this. Aidan losing his job did not worry me; losing my own certainly did. And it was with this worrying thought squeezing my brain that I eventually fell asleep.

T
oday was the first day of filming. Not a lighting or camera test, but the real thing. Tonight, there would exist a length of exposed film showing me – or at least someone who looked a bit like me – acting in her very first moving picture. The nerves I had endured last night were gradually replaced by relief that we were getting on with it at last. And as the day went on, the pieces of the kaleidoscope that had so baffled me began to settle.

We did the scene we had rehearsed yesterday. The set and lights were checked, Aidan and I “blocked” the scene, making our moves without acting or speaking, and the lights were adjusted until Harry, behind the camera, was satisfied. Then he shouted, “Set!” which meant, “Everyone on the set who shouldn’t be, clear off!”

David, who was such an exacting director that it had taken ages to get the scene set up to his liking, eventually called “Roll camera!” and Harry started the camera and called back, “Rolling!” Then Dennis called for the clapperboard.

The contraption known as the clapperboard seemed to me old-fashioned. The primitive wooden board with a hinged top seemed to have no place in this modern, electrified studio. It did not take me long, however, to realize it was the most important piece of equipment of all. Without it, it would be impossible to make a film.

The clapper boy, as he was called (though he was not a boy at all, but a man called Bernard who was at least forty), was the clapperboard’s master. As soon as the camera started rolling, he put the board in front of the lens and “clapped” the hinged part down to signify that the scene was being filmed. Only then did David call “Action!” and the filming properly began. After each scene, Bernard bore the clapperboard away with a proprietary action, rubbed off the scene number, and chalked on the next with a piece of chalk he wore on a thin chain around his neck. Sometimes he would have to wait a long time before he could do this, but it was his job and no one else’s. Ever.

I was thrilled that at last I understood. When Frank threw his leg over his bicycle or tossed a bale of hay onto the stack or clattered down the stairs in his nailed boots, he would shout, “Lights, camera, action!” Now, I could tell him exactly how those three elements combined to film the scene. My next letter to him would be a long one.

As I set this down all these months later, it seems as banal and repetitive as Aidan considered the business of making a film. But then it was the most exciting thing imaginable. That moment when the clapperboard went “smack!” and I put my actress’s face on was like an alarm clock going off. “Get up, Clara Hope,” it said, “and do what – astonishingly – you get paid to do!”

Furthermore, to my inexpressible relief, Harry’s call of “Rolling!” seemed to work magic on Aidan. He kept his head down while Bernard slapped the clapperboard shut. But then his head came up, and a miracle took place.

He began to act.

There was a light in his face that had not been there in rehearsals; a quickness, as if his internal battery had been switched on. Not only did he not improvise or giggle, he played the part with such professionalism that I forgot he was Aidan and started to believe he was de Montford. It was suddenly much easier to be Eloise.

“Marvellous! Perfect!” exclaimed David when the take was over. He came towards me, applauding, his face pink with excitement. “Clara!” His voice was almost a shriek. “That was absolutely wonderful. You’re a natural, just like I said.” I was sitting down; he put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way. “Now, why did you not show us this in rehearsal? I’ve been worried sick that you wouldn’t do!”

“So have I,” I confessed. “But … I don’t know, it just felt so different to know it’s a real performance that people are actually going to see.”

I did not add that the sudden attention that Aidan had brought to his own performance had given mine life. David squeezed my shoulder. “We’re going to do another take, and we don’t know yet which we’ll use, so you’ve got to give it everything this time as well, all right?”

I nodded, happy in the expectation that Aidan would also “give it everything”. It was his ability to do this, I realized, that must show in screen tests and get him parts. “Natural” or not, I must seem to Aidan Tobias an amateur who had got the role by means of mere luck. In contrast, he was an actor of rare ability, much more deserving of praise than I. Yet David had pointedly, publicly ignored him.

R
obert Palliser, a middle-aged actor who was playing de Montfort’s uncle, was always very kind to me. Off-screen he wore thick glasses, and was very amiable, like a real uncle. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked me that day at the first break. “You’re so young, you must be absolutely floored by all this.”

“Yes, I am,” I confessed. Then, so as not to seem too idiotic, I added, “Well, a bit.”

“Much of what goes on must seem unfathomable.”

“It does, rather,” I said. “Though I’ve managed to find out that Harry is the cinematographer, and Kitty is the continuity girl, and Alfie is one of the gropes.”

Robert Palliser’s small pink mouth fell open.

“Oh! Sorry, I mean
grips
. The boys who shift things around.”

“Ah.” The pink mouth expanded in a surprisingly pleasant smile. “Well, you’ve done better than I did when I first started in this business. I wouldn’t say boo to a goose.” He considered. “But then, I was a mere boy, quite untried. You seem very poised for one so young.”

“Aidan says I’m plucky.”

He looked at me from under lowered eyelashes, his expression unreadable. “Well, Aidan has his own view of the world, and that’s a fact. Tell me, is your mother with you?”

“No. She is needed at home. She … er … helps my father in his work.” I looked at him, feeling uncertain. “Eighteen is old enough to be by oneself, though, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” He patted my hand. “And naturally you’ll see your family soon, will you not? Why not invite them to tour the studios?”

I could not answer. Surprise at his suggestion and a sudden closing of my throat prevented me.

“You are missing them, aren’t you?” he asked softly.

Swallowing, I nodded. “My brother – his name’s Frank – he’d love to come here,” I continued, but then I had to stop again. An inexplicable wave of longing to be back in Haverth had buried me. I strove to compose myself. “Um … I write to them, and they write to me,” I told him. “That will have to do for now, I think.”

“Dear girl!” exclaimed Robert. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Please don’t concern yourself,” I said, sniffing a little. “I am quite all right.”

At that moment the actor playing the revolutionary leader passed. Robert caught his sleeve. “Ah, Godfrey! Come and join me and the delightful Clara Hope, our young star.”

Godfrey Claymore, a rangy Scot with a face more aristocratic than a revolutionary leader perhaps ought to have, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Hello, darling,” he said, which flattered me until I discovered that this was what he called everyone, even the men. “In at the deep end? Robbie here will always pull you out when you need it, you know. He’s wonderful with the ladies.” He and Robert exchanged a look. “And talking of ladies,” continued Godfrey, “be grateful, Clara darling, you’re not contending with La Vincenza quite yet.” He sucked in air through his teeth. “Even Robbie can’t deal with
her
!”

I was still trying to recover and did not reply. Godfrey scrutinized me for a moment, then said, “Toodle-oo!”, waved happily and melted away. Robert Palliser giggled. “My dear, old Godfrey may be a bit of a gossip, but he’s quite right. If you feel all at sea, you only have to ask and we’ll haul you out.” He gestured with the script he held. “Now, to work. We’re on next. Do you want to go through this?”

“A
idan, for the last time!”

It was the end of another long day of rehearsals. David had spent the morning in a meeting with the people he called his “money men”. He had returned to the set at lunchtime, his normally open expression obscured by anxiety, and had been grumpy all afternoon. By the time six o’clock came we were all exhausted. Aidan, perhaps hoping to lift the mood, had begun to ignore the script and improvise, and David had lost patience. “Are you intent upon sabotaging this film entirely?” he demanded. “Or are you merely trying to stop us finishing it on time?”

Aidan was kneeling on the floor. We were rehearsing the scene where he declares his love for Eloise, who was sitting on a kitchen chair with Maria adjusting her skirts. He stood up wearily and shrugged. “Do you want me to tell you how little I care?”

David’s lips got very thin. “I’m warning you…”

But Aidan spoke over him. “
What
are you warning me? That filming will run over schedule and cost more than you have told those money-grabbing self-abusers you call your investors? That is your concern, dear David, not mine.”

I did not know what a self-abuser was, but judging by David’s reaction, it was a not inconsiderable insult to the money men. He stared at Aidan, and the muscles in his face seemed to loosen, as if he was no longer controlling them. His voice was cold. “And what
is
your concern,
dear Aidan
?”

Aidan strolled across the floor to the area behind the cameras, where his jacket was hanging over the back of a chair. From one of its pockets he took a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. Knowing that smoking was forbidden on the set, I watched in trepidation. Unhurried, Aidan lit up and took the first puff with satisfaction. “My concern,” he announced to the silent, waiting studio, “is this. Where am I going to get drunk tonight, and who is going to join me? Dennis, how about you? Shall we descend upon Claridges, or the Café Royal, or somewhere altogether more delicious, in Soho perhaps, where the ponces go?”

I did not know what a ponce was either, but the word had an instant effect on the colour of Dennis’s complexion. He tried to speak, but David, whose expression was a mixture of exasperation and determination, wouldn’t let him. “Don’t demean yourself, Dennis,” he said wearily. Then, unexpectedly, he turned to me. “Clara, my dear, allow me to apologize for Aidan’s unpleasant behaviour. But his contract to complete this picture was drawn up by very competent lawyers, as was yours. I’m afraid that unless something quite untoward happens, you must see the adventures of Charles and Eloise out together till the very end.”