Unity (23 page)

Given Geraldine Mortimer's resentment of people who regarded her as a female Peter Pan, I am loath to admit that she looms as large in my memories of childhood as in Luke's. Unlike many of her fans – or, perhaps more significantly, their parents – I felt no sense of betrayal when she joined the International Workers Party. On the contrary, it affirmed my association of politicians and actors. She added a rare dash of colour to a national scene as grey as its image on the television screen. What's more, her placard politics appealed to my adolescent mind.

It was opening Geraldine's journal – or Pandora's Box, as I came to think of it – that revived my interest in the Unity saga. I first had to make sense of the script. The elegant yet strangely
dislocated
writing would no doubt intrigue a graphologist, but it tried the patience of the amateur sleuth. Several letters (g, p, q, y and z) were cut off from their tails. Names were regularly reduced to initials. The overall impression was of deciphering an arcane, ancient screed.

I am extracting the journal – the term that Geraldine herself favoured – in its entirety for the months of September and October 1977. Its record of events differs substantially from Luke's. Together, they not only provide a more rounded portrait of Felicity but confirm that the only rounded portrait is one that is true to her contradictions. Geraldine, who is, of course, writing for her own convenience rather than mine, makes fewer allusions to Felicity than I might have wished. Her most significant contribution is to chart her emerging political consciousness, for which she herself takes much of the credit. Luke, who made light of Felicity's
new-found
commitment, viewed it as an attempt to curry favour with the Germans. My own knowledge of Felicity would lead me to
endorse his conclusion, were it not for the lingering doubt raised by his remark after Ralf Heyn's arrest that we can never know the truth about anyone – not even our best friend. If that is so – and it certainly was in the case of my feelings for him – then I have to admit that Felicity's stance may have been sincere.

A reading of Geraldine's journal adds contrast to my portrait of Felicity but confusion to my portrait of Luke. Most of the
references
to him are hostile. Given my innate bias, I prefer to leave it to the reader to determine how far these might spring from suppressed attraction. I have particular difficulty in reconciling Geraldine's report on 17 October of the evening when Meier first offered Luke drugs and then seduced him with Luke's in his letter of 2 October which stops short at the drugs. My customary faith in Luke is undermined both by the intensity of his despair and by my reading of Meier's character. While I feel wounded that, having stated his intention to ‘tell you everything', Luke should have omitted any mention of his seduction, I can identify with his shame.

My picture of Luke is framed by an even deeper mystery. In January 2001, having completed my appraisal of Geraldine's journal, I sent him a copy for comment. Three months later, he committed suicide. In keeping with so much else in this story, he left no note. I, however, cannot afford such reticence. It may be that the receipt of the journal had no bearing on his state of mind. Logic, however, dictates otherwise. He must have been horrified to discover that, rather than the innocent dupe he had always
maintained
, Felicity was a cold-blooded murderess. He must have been humiliated to learn that he had been manipulated as much by her as by Meier. He must have dreaded the prospect of his credulity being made public. In which case why, when he mounted the pulpit on the morning of his death, was it not Felicity or Meier or Samif that he denounced but his own church?

If Luke's motives are in doubt, then so, I am obliged to admit, are my own. I told myself – and the Coroner – that I sent him the journal to elicit his views. That was true, but was it the whole truth, let alone the nothing but the truth of my court-room oath? I must have realised that it would revive his most painful
memories
. So, was I deliberately trying to hurt him: to punish him twenty years on for his failure to recognise – let alone, reciprocate – my love? Or is my guilt mere self-importance: an attempt to play the central role in his death that I was denied in his life?

a.m.: Arrive Munich. Nerves jangling enough to set off alarm. Customs frosty. Libyan visa = criminal record. Welcome to Germany.

One-man reception committee (Bad skin, teeth and manners). Placard with G[eraldine] M[ortimer] writ large. Rush to push it aside. Thank G., no one sees and escape unrecognised. Relief after Heathrow and woman in VIP lounge: ‘Excuse me, but weren't you Geraldine Mortimer …? Oops!' Expects me to laugh at her slip.

Hotel quiet, central, moneyed. Crocodile handbags on display in foyer. Welcome to Economic Miracle.

Dark suite. Solid furniture. Alpine prints (breath of fresh air?). One bowl of fruit. Management's compliments to Mr Gerald Mortimer. 1
^st
instinct: raise hell. 2
^nd
instinct: leave it to rot and place it in paternal suite next week. Both over-ruled by 3
^rd
instinct: hunger.

No presents, not even bottle of perfume. Heidi, you're not in Hollywood any more. Maybe producers don't give presents to stars in Germany? Maybe I'm no longer a star? Big sister roles already. Who cares? Acting for Wolfram Meier, one of Europe's finest. It's the work – the work – that counts.

Long soak. Lavender. Good towels. Change into new silk
underwear
(twinge of guilt at thought of Dermot. Does he really
understand
? Happy to dress down in public but crave a touch of luxury next to skin).

Tea with producer, Werner (thinning hair, thickset figure, cast in left eye), and Luke, writer (cute, queer, puppyish charm). L.
overdoes
the ‘pinch me' act. Claims he ‘grew up on' me. ‘Really?' reply in tone as dry as the cake. ‘Like free school milk?' Puppy dog's tail droops between legs.

Truth is that he didn't grow up on me; none of them did. Aged, yes, but didn't grow up. Hence reluctance to let me grow up in turn.

Child star = cleft stick. As child, required to be adult (all those dollars resting on shoulders). As adult, expected to remain as fresh/trusting/innocent as child.

G. forbid the English rose should turn red!

Costumes and make-up. Clothes horse.

Beate (make-up) dripping compliments about my complexion (dyke?) and attitude. Admits fear that I would come on all
Hollywood
and dictate my own look. Claims that reason English stars so much more effective than Americans in period dramas isn't classical training (all that RADA/RSC shit) but flexibility. Too much Elizabeth Arden the ruin of Elizabethan England.

Beate gives great gossip. A tonic after Hoxton Square.
107
Forgotten how much I missed it. Wardrobe and make-up the hub of every film.

D[iana] M[osley], a beauty. Such a burden – on her and on me. Not beautiful (an adjunct to something else) but a beauty (an unqualified fact). Emphasis on looks so destructive. To be singled out by Nature. Must have thought the whole world revolved around her. No wonder she became a fascist.

To be the constant centre of attention and yet to have no real power. A paradox? Not to a child actress.

Must stop harping on the past. That little girl no longer exists – except in flashes of light on the screen. Am a new person. Serious actress. Proof is I can play a character quite unlike myself: a woman who connived at evil; a woman so unrepentant that she can claim the reason for Blackshirts was simply that they were too poor to keep white ones clean!

Tea with Felicity. A cat – as in feline, not catty (not yet). Complex mixture of owning-class confidence and new-girl-in-class
insecurities
.
As nervous about working on film as G[eraldine] M[ortimer] about joining Party. Same reason. Will comrades respect commitment or resent privilege?

Benefit of doubt.

Problem parents. After she won place at Cambridge, mother: ‘Oh what a pity, darling! Now no one will want to marry you.'

Corrects me on one point. L[uke] not queer at all but her boyfriend. She thinks it v. funny. Promises not to tell him, but know she will. Shaken. Even Dermot in awe of my intuition. What do I have if it's gone?

Bad night. Double brandy at 2 a.m. Room service (Blond. Sleek. Striped waistcoat. V. tight trousers. ½ moment's hesitation. ‘Is that a
bratwurst
in your pocket or are you a vegetarian?' Come to senses. Send him away with tip).

Nightmare: ultimatum from Wolfram that wedding scene cut unless I agree to play it nude. Pressure from Werner and Father. Werner on Nuremberg decree that all marriage-ceremonies between foreigners in 3
^rd
Reich have to be conducted naked. Floods of tears as I unbutton blouse. Father: it's only pre-wedding nerves.

Wake up drenched. Head pounding. Depression made worse by continuing limbo. Recall Werner's advice to use these few days to acclimatise myself to city. But I want to acclimatise myself to set.

Only 2 more days to go. Everyone bound to have formed into cliques. Not just Wolfram's group but the rest. All already worked together in England, whereas my Eng interiors to be shot here in studio (German labour costs apparently less than ½). No doubt waiting to see me take a tumble. Convinced my sensibilities blunted by politics. Or else that I had none to begin with.

Oh really? Critics are vermin, but some exceptions. Pauline Kael
108
on
The June Bridesmaid
where G.M. ‘expertly negotiates the transition from the self-containment of the child to the
self-consciousness
of the adolescent.'

How about the self-awareness of the adult? Watch this space!

Prepare for Wolfram's party. Fret like sociology student over
semiotics
of clothes. Is smart a mark of respect or an assertion of status? Ditto, casual: relaxation or indifference? In event, no one seemed to notice. Several wearing next to nothing. Were they equally exercised by semiotics of flesh?

Long talk with Rolf/Ralf (smudged cast-list no excuse). Playing Hitler. Met Dermot at the Frankfurt conference. A comrade! Urged me to attend protest-meeting against treatment of Leftist prisoners. Resisted temptation, explaining cost of struggle at home. Slurs. Slanders. Imperative for sanity and standing that I return to work. Not a come-back. Loathe the term. Far too
What
Ever Happened to Baby Jane
? More a second chance. Determined to permit no distractions. I'm G.M. the actress not G.M. the activist. He clasped my arm and asked if they mightn't be the same.

1
^st
real chat with Wolfram. Frustratingly one-sided. His hesitancy in English exacerbated by snuffly cold. Broached subject of
establishing
shot. Explained Gerald's theory that first sight of one's character should be full-length to place it for audience. Assured him that I didn't wish to encroach on his preserve but, unless he had strong objections, I'd like to follow the advice (only
worthwhile
piece Father ever gave). W. smiled and sniffed.

Interrupted tête-à-tête between Felicity and Luke. F. insisted I join them (‘The more the merrier'). F. enchanted with Serpent's Nest set-up. Eager to preserve the memory. Told her she should keep a diary. Overwhelmed by sense of betrayal (of what? this journal? myself?). She probed. Explained that, for me, it was an essential discipline: the life not just lived but recorded. And, in a capitalist society, one way of taking control.

Luke: ‘Or it may just be to have something sensational to read on the train.'

Stared at him icily. Why not just come out with it and call me a tart?

First time before cameras, tho not on set. With Wolfram, Werner, Felicity, Luke etc. to airport to welcome Gerald. Very different from my own arrival (holding big guns in reserve). In lobby, ugly German (sloe-eyed, slope-shouldered) runs up with newspaper for me to sign. F. impressed, L. offended, I oblige. Ugly German looks at paper: ‘I was expecting Julie Christie.'

Is there no end to my humiliation?

Short answer: no. Wait by gate. Gerald disgorged. Living rebuff to ‘Small is beautiful'. Kisses me as tho by right rather than custom. Introduces Haroko. Can there be any less propitious place for first meeting than airport, surrounded by phalanx of photographers jostling to capture historic moment on film?

Photographs (previous) don't do her justice. Elegant woman. Face concave but attractive. Hair and personality carefully lacquered. And so young (twenty-six). Am I alone in feeling distaste?

All too clear what's in it for him. But what about her? Japanese not Thai or Filipino. Doctorate, not desperate. I suspect
something
sinister. Embarrassed even to confide it to paper. But have no choice. Certain she must be CIA. Married him in order to gain access to me.

How she'd laugh if she read it! More ammunition for the ‘Left = paranoia' brigade. But what other explanation can there be? I scare them. Permanent affront to their pigeon-hole minds. File ‘actress' under beauty parlour and sun lamp, not picket-line and public meeting. They need to patrol all their boundaries: national, economic, psychological.

(NB: must keep journal under lock and key).

What more do they want from me? Fined for travelling to Cuba. Deported for protesting against Vietnam. Refused a new visa in spite of offers of work. Is one young actress really such a threat?