Fear in the Sunlight (13 page)

‘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 embarrassed. ‘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 – 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 added‚ ‘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 – 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 arrived‚ and Alma picked the glass 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 – I hope – 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 glass. ‘That much we
can
agree on.’

‘Tell me – 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 – 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 attitude, 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 Hitchcock 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 manuscripts.’ 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 organisation‚ 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 does‚ 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 – when – 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 competitiveness 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 there‚ 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 child‚ 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 title 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 – 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 offer‚ 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 Passing 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. Or‚ 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 added‚ ‘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 attitudes, 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 shell, just as it was hers.’

‘I suppose so, although clearly that shell 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 – no interviews, nothing personal in the public domain, in fact. My husband calls you a Theodora.’ Josephine shrugged‚ 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 class 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 class, 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 – I suppose people do disappoint me. Perhaps it’s the times we’ve lived through‚ 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 – or just bewildered.’ She ran her finger around the rim of her glass, thinking. ‘When was the last time you stood in a crowd and felt contentment?’ she asked. ‘Not in a theatre or cinema – 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.’