Fear in the Sunlight (17 page)

‘Well, this has been considerably more engrossing than any of his films,’ Ronnie said.

The hotel’s beautiful curved dining room, which added a bold modernist touch to the original Victorian architecture, was as elegant on the inside as it was distinctive on the out: rich walnut walls blended effortlessly with a blush-rose ceiling and a floor of light polished oak, whilst the glazed, open frontage ensured that the restaurant was flooded with light for most of the day. Tonight, though, the surroundings paled into insignificance. All eyes were fixed on the Hitchcocks’ table, and Josephine pitied the musicians who had been booked to provide the official entertainment: their set – no matter how good – was bound to seem bland by comparison. She had watched on and off, intrigued more by the subtle dynamic between the Hitchcocks than by the histrionic reactions of their guests; Alma seemed smaller than ever next to her husband, but Josephine noticed how often he looked to her for a reaction to something he had said and was genuinely touched by the way his face lit up whenever she spoke. She had read somewhere that the director was shy, but to her he seemed watchful and quietly self-confident, able to express himself with ease and humour when he wished but just as content to stand back from the conversation and observe. As he drained his glass and stood up to leave the table, Alma whispered something in his ear‚ and he glanced in their direction and nodded. ‘Oh God, he’s coming over,’ she said, nudging Archie. ‘Just when I thought we’d got away with it.’

‘Shouldn’t that be “God
is
coming over”?’ Archie said acidly. ‘It’s how they’ve been behaving all night. No wonder the nun had to leave. It must have been quite confusing for her.’

Lettice frowned at him. ‘Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s so exciting.’

‘How do I look?’ Lydia asked, fumbling in her bag for a mirror.

Marta snapped the bag shut and affectionately brushed Lydia’s hair back from her face. ‘Perfect. Margaret Lockwood’s better-looking sister.’

‘Better-looking
younger
sister, I assume.’

‘Naturally.’

For a large man, Hitchcock wore his clothes well; despite the fractious dinner, he looked elegant and unruffled as he walked across the restaurant. He smiled at them all, nodded to Marta, and held out his hand to Josephine. ‘Miss Tey‚ my wife tells me the opening skirmishes have been satisfactorily negotiated and we might even have reason to be optimistic?’

Feeling a little railroaded, but seeing no point in playing hard-to-get now that she had made up her mind, Josephine nodded. ‘Yes. As long as we can agree on the terms, I’d be very happy for you to work on
A Shilling for Candles
.’

‘Splendid. I’m so glad.’ His acting was almost as good as his directing, Josephine thought; if it had not been for Alma’s frankness, she would never have guessed that Hitchcock’s attitude to her novel was at best lukewarm. ‘We’re shooting
Sabotage
in the autumn,’ he added, ‘so we’ll be keen to get started on a new project as soon as possible after that.’

‘Good. I’ll be interested to see what you do with it.’

‘You intend to take a back seat in the adaptation process‚ then?’

She detected a note of relief in his voice, and didn’t blame him: there must be nothing worse for a director than an author clinging to her novel with white knuckles, and she knew it would make it easier for both of them if she just took the money and ran. If she didn’t like the results, she didn’t have to do it again, and she might as well learn her lesson with the most successful director of the moment. Much to her surprise, she trusted Alma to find a compromise that would satisfy both her husband’s ambitions and the integrity of the novel. ‘I think I’ll stick to books and the theatre,’ she said with a smile. ‘Adding another string to my bow might be pushing my luck.’

He nodded. ‘You’re wise to stick to what you enjoy most, and the stage is lucky to have you.’ He smiled briefly at Lydia, acknowledging the part she had played in making
Richard of Bordeaux
such a success. ‘Perhaps you’d all like to join us in the Mirror Room for a nightcap to celebrate?’

Lettice stood up as Josephine shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no,’ she said firmly, feeling Lydia’s eyes in the back of her neck. ‘We haven’t finished here‚ and your evening looks complicated enough.’

There was a twinkle in his eye as he said‚ ‘Ah, you noticed. Please don’t let that put you off. I’m about to conduct an experiment which might interest you. After all, we both deal to some extent in fear and guilt.’ He paused when he saw her surprise. ‘Professionally speaking, of course. There’s no hurry: just come through when you’re ready.’ He turned to go, then stopped and looked at Archie. ‘Have we met before?’

‘Yes. At Scotland Yard.’ It was a good line, and Josephine admired the restraint with which Archie gave it the timing it deserved. ‘You wanted to know how to arrest a man,’ he explained, ‘and I was the detective inspector who told you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Archie Penrose.’

‘Chief inspector now,’ Lettice added proudly.

Hitchcock looked surprised, and Josephine could see that it was the last thing he had expected: nobody looked less like a policeman than Archie in black tie. He recovered well but seemed a little uncomfortable as he walked away, and she wondered if he regretted having unwittingly invited a senior detective to witness his experiment, whatever it might be.

‘God, I thought you’d blown it there,’ Lydia said.

‘What makes you think she hasn’t?’ Ronnie lit a cigarette. ‘We should have made a run for it as soon as he stood up. Now we’re stuck with them.’

‘Sorry, but he didn’t leave me much choice.’

Marta drained her glass and shook her head as a waiter stepped forward to refill it. ‘I think I’ll give coffee with the film crew a miss,’ she said.

‘Are you all right?’ Lydia asked. ‘You’ve been quiet all evening.’

‘I’m fine – just a bit tired from the drive and not really in the mood for that.’ She nodded towards the hallway.

‘What will you do?’

‘Oh, go and finish unpacking or something.’

‘I could give you a hand.’

Lydia looked torn. Marta smiled and gave her a kiss. ‘Go and dazzle the Hitchcocks. You know you want to.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. I’ll see you all later. You can tell me about it then.’

Josephine watched her go, trying to ignore how flat and colourless the evening had suddenly become. If she felt like this when Marta left the room, what effect would her leaving the country have? ‘Let’s go,’ she said reluctantly. ‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we can make our excuses and leave.’

Coffee and brandy were already laid out for them when they sat down in the extraordinary sitting room which adjoined the hotel’s lounge. Hitchcock had wasted no time in getting under way. He acknowledged their arrival with a brief nod and carried on talking, making the most of a captive audience. ‘Ten years ago‚ film was still the poor relation of the stage. We clung to its material and idolised its stars.’ Josephine sighed, wishing she had been firmer. ‘But the world has changed. The only thing a play can do that a film can’t is bring those actors into the same room as their audience.’

‘Good to know we count for something,’ Lydia muttered.

‘These days‚ people expect realism‚ not unconvincing rooms full of cheap stage props.’ Ronnie cleared her throat, ready to say something in defence of her profession, but Lettice glared at her and she thought better of it. ‘And the same is true of conversation,’ Hitchcock continued. ‘Film allows us to deliver dialogue more effectively than a stage ever could.’ It was Josephine’s turn to feel indignant. She wondered if he had set out to be as rude as possible, or if it just came naturally. It was inconceivable that he didn’t realise how offensive he was being, and she sensed that it was only a matter of time before he steered his insults closer to home: the people who knew him best were looking apprehensive rather than smug. ‘But sound mustn’t make us lazy. We can’t simply film someone talking. By cutting to whoever is listening‚ we give each word more meaning by showing its effect.’

‘You could always just turn your head slightly and look at the other actors on stage,’ Josephine said, and for once she made no effort to keep the comment under her breath. Archie laughed, and even Alma threw an amused glance in her direction.

‘But the craft of making movies is a subject for tomorrow. Tonight, I thought we’d get to know each other better‚ and, to my mind, the best way to do that is to share our deepest fears.’ He paused and looked round the room. ‘What frightens a man is fundamental to who he is, to who he has always been: the things that frighten us now are the things that frightened us when we were children – and I must confess that I am easily frightened. When I was four, I woke with a start. The house was plunged into darkness and completely silent. I sat up and I began calling my mother. No one responded because no one was there. I trembled with fear. However, I was able to find enough courage to get up. I came to the kitchen‚ which was illuminated in a sinister fashion. I trembled more and more. At the same time, I was hungry. I opened the kitchen buffet, in which I found some cold meat, and I began eating and crying. I couldn’t calm down until my parents came back. The sense of isolation and abandonment that I felt that night has never left me. To this day, I avoid being alone wherever possible, and I fear the dark – or rather, what the dark may hold.’

‘I don’t know about you, but this is pretty close to one of my worst nightmares,’ Ronnie whispered loudly, glaring at Josephine. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got us into this.’

‘I don’t remember being the one who broke my neck to get a seat,’ she retorted, gesturing towards Lettice and Lydia. ‘Right now, being alone would be my idea of heaven.’

‘My wife will tell you that I’m frightened of authority.’ Hitchcock turned and spoke directly to Archie. ‘Policemen terrify me. English policemen‚ especially‚ because you’re always so polite. When I was five, I did something very bad‚’ he continued‚ and Josephine suddenly had a terrible feeling that they were going to explore his fears year by year. Could any man have that many neuroses‚ she asked herself‚ and decided that this one probably could; if that was the case‚ it was going to be the longest weekend of her life. ‘I don’t recall what it was, but my father wanted to punish me. He made me go to the police station with a letter and they locked me up – only for a few minutes‚ but the noise of the cell door is something that I’ll never forget. It terrified me.’

As the director began to talk about a fear of embarrassing himself in public – without any great sense of irony as far as Josephine could see – she looked out of the window and wondered what Marta was doing. The sky seemed at war with itself, and a ribbon of dark blue touched the hills on the other side of the water, threatening the gentle summer evening which had descended on Portmeirion; during a rare pause in Hitchcock’s monologue, she thought she detected the distant rumble of thunder. Outside on the terrace, the nun walked quickly past the window, rounding the corner in the general direction of the hotel’s reception. Josephine waited to see if she would rejoin the party, but no one appeared‚ and she turned her attention reluctantly back to Hitchcock’s speech. ‘But my greatest fear of all is to know the future. A movie director can
predict
the future, of course: in making a film, he takes an imitation slice of life in his hands and arranges it just the way he wants it. He knows, in the first scene, what is going to happen in the last. But the stuff the movie director is working with isn’t real. In real life, we can plan and take precautions, but we can never be sure – and to know the future without any semblance of control would be a peculiar kind of hell. To see the pain along with all the beautiful things ahead, the misery, the death – that would be terrible. The loss of those we love is something we should not be asked to know about too soon. When God keeps the future hidden, He is being merciful, and He is saying that life would be unbearable without suspense.’ He sat down and smiled expectantly at his audience. ‘Who’d like to start us off?’

‘Have you left them anywhere to go, Hitch?’ Alma’s easy teasing of her husband made the atmosphere in the room instantly more relaxed‚ and everybody laughed, but Josephine noticed that she had distanced herself from the exercise, making it clear that she had no intention of taking part. ‘You’ve probably spoken for most people here.’

‘We’ll see. How about you, Mr Lascelles? If I’ve touched a nerve, feel free to elaborate on it, or take us in a different direction altogether.’

He seemed to have picked on the shyest person in the room, and Josephine wondered if that was deliberate. The young man cleared his throat nervously and took a healthy swig of brandy before saying‚ ‘Injustice, I suppose. When I was a boy, I was accused of something I didn’t do and I’ve never got over it.’

Hitchcock nodded sympathetically. ‘Shame is a terrible thing. How did it make you feel?’

‘Devastated. It was just a childish prank, but it felt like the end of the world. I grew up that day, and there was no such thing as innocence any more – not because I felt guilty, but because I realised then that the truth doesn’t always matter. It’s what people
think
that determines how the world works. And that made me so angry.’ Listening to him speak, Josephine was astonished that strangers were prepared to open themselves up to such public scrutiny, but the writer in her could only admire the skill with which Hitchcock manipulated people, directing their private emotions as effortlessly as he presumably did their professional ones. Even she was caught up in the game now, aware of a certain shameful voyeurism in her attitude but implicated nonetheless by her fascination with what was to come. ‘No one believed me,’ the actor continued, ‘not even my parents, and it made me feel so helpless because there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. It was as if I were talking a completely different language. In the end, I almost began to doubt myself. That’s what frightened me, really – not the idea of being punished for something I hadn’t done.’ He smiled, trying to make light of what he had said. ‘I suppose I’ve always been too concerned about what people think of me. Bad choice of profession, I know.’