Mediterranean Nights (40 page)

‘Do you mind if I sit here for a while?'

As she looked up he saw that her eyes were grey and her eyebrows widely spaced, but her voice held a chill indifference.

‘It has nothing to do with me. The chairs belong to the Corporation.'

That was far from a promising start, but his heart was
racing with excitement. This girl could give him everything he wanted—if only he could manage to intrigue her. In an agony of effort he racked his brains for a brilliant opening, but his tongue beat his wits and he found himself blurting out:

‘Please let me talk to you! I've been tramping the front for hours and you're the only civilised woman I've seen all day.'

She laid down her book, gave him an appraising glance and said: ‘How very trying for you. But as you admit to woman-hunting as an occupation, you can hardly expect me to be impressed by your stock line in compliments.'

‘But I meant it,' he assured her hastily. ‘Honestly I did. I haven't done this sort of thing since I was a subaltern in the First World War.'

She continued to regard him sceptically, while endeavouring to size him up. Her holiday was nearly over and the only passable male at the small hotel where she was staying had gone home the previous day. During her decidedly chequered career she had often allowed herself to be picked up, so she was not averse to doing so now; but experience had taught her that it rarely paid good dividends unless she had carefully assessed the man before involving herself. Fawcett's voice told her that he was of the upper class and his clothes implied that he had plenty of money; so her first reaction was favourable. To gain a little time she remarked:

‘Your mention of the First World War is rather a give-away about your age, isn't it?'

He smiled. ‘I suppose it is. Still, they say a woman's as old as she looks and a man's as young as he feels.'

‘How old do I look to you?' she asked, turning her face towards him.

Fawcett could see now that she was older than he had thought. Her eyes were the give-away and there was a tired look about them. But he punted for safety and replied: ‘Twenty-six.'

She shook her head. ‘I'm nearer thirty than I care to think.'

‘That's no age. I'm fifty-four; but if you'll give me your company for the next few hours I'll feel as though I were eighteen again.'

‘Then I certainly won't. Men who are younger than I am nearly always bore me.'

‘But, seriously. Won't you let me give you tea—and dinner? I have a car handy and if you like we could go for a drive in between.'

Again she weighed the pros and cons. She had very little money left and the thought of a good dinner was tempting. The snag was that he would expect her to pay for it in her own coin afterwards and a recent operation had taken so much out of her that she was no longer confident of emerging from such an encounter with flying colours. But his pleading suddenly became so eloquent that she allowed herself to be persuaded.

Over tea at Princes' they swapped half-truths. She gave him the stage name that lack of talent had long rendered useless to her and he gave a false one—just in case of complications. He told her about the loss of his wife, but suppressed the fact that he lived near Brighton. She volunteered that she had chosen it to recuperate in after an illness, having forgotten how tawdry it became in the summer season. He learnt that she had worked as a cabaret artiste and a model; but she did not disclose that she had no prospects of a job and was most desperately worried about money.

After tea they collected the car and he drove her to a pretty piece of woodland not far from Nettleverge. The choicest spots were already occupied by picknickers, but he found a place to park and they lit up cigarettes. It was then she told him that she had no family, and having married a Frenchman had lived abroad for several years, so had few friends in London. That, her pleasant voice and tranquil manner all combined to strengthen the warmth of the feelings that the sight of her physical attractions aroused in him. After a while he began to wonder if she would let him kiss her and, sliding an arm about her, gently drew her closer.

She had expected it, so made no protest. But the feel of her lips had the effect of an elixir of youth upon him and, taking her passivity for willingness, he gave free reign to his sudden upsurge of passion.

In one violent movement she thrust him from her and cried: ‘What do you take me for? Rich men like you think
their money can buy anything. Touch me again and I'll shout for help!'

Instantly panic seized him. The picknickers nearby might already have heard her. Stories of well-dressed adventuresses who lured elderly men into just such situations, then blackmailed them, flashed into his mind. Stammering an apology, he got the car going, anxious now only to be rid of her and so, having been kicked out of his fool's paradise, end this inglorious day.

It was as they bumped on to the road that he heard her murmur: ‘I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. By allowing you to drive me out here I asked for it.'

Surprised and very relieved, he muttered: ‘No, no. I'm afraid I behaved very badly.'

She shrugged. ‘Let's forget it. I'll still have dinner with you if you want me to. It's such a lovely evening; why not let's have something at a country pub?'

Grasping eagerly at her forgiveness, he agreed with a happy laugh. Then, on a sudden impulse, he took the turning that led down to Nettleverge. Five minutes later he pulled up outside the manor house and said: ‘I live here. Would you like to see my garden?'

She gave him a rather queer look, then said: ‘Yes, I'd love to.'

During the hour that followed, her restful charm enraptured him again. As they strolled back to the house for another cocktail, she asked: ‘Would it be possible for us to have dinner here, instead of going to a noisy inn?'

‘Why not!' he smiled, delighted at the thought. ‘I gave the couple who look after me the day off, but we can easily knock up something for ourselves.'

She cooked an omelette while he got up a bottle of champagne; then, after they had demolished a dish of peaches, they went out and sat on the terrace in the late twilight. For another hour they talked with increasing intimacy and for the first time in many months he felt really happy again. At last the time came for her to go, and as she stood up she said a little sadly:

‘How lucky you are to live here. If I did, I'd never want to leave it.'

‘Then come down and stay,' he pressed her eagerly. ‘I'd
simply love to have you. Come down and stay for as long as you like.'

She hesitated. ‘Wouldn't that make an awful scandal?'

‘Oh, we'd say you were my niece from Canada, or something.'

‘D'you really mean that?'

‘Of course I do.'

In her laugh there was a slightly hysterical note; then she said soberly: ‘You could hardly be expected to know me again, and I didn't recognise you till you brought me to the house; but I lived here until I was twelve. My real name is Miranda and I'm the daughter of the housekeeper you had then.'

Suddenly he saw that she was crying as she took his hand, pressed it and whispered: ‘The only carefree, happy hours I've ever known were in your garden. It will be just like coming home.'

STORY XXVI

H
ERE
is something quite different—a story for the Talking Screen. As such it is naturally presented in episodic form, but it is none the less a good plot for that, and its setting having a Balkan flavour gives it some claim to inclusion between the covers of this book.

People are always asking me why so few of my full-length novels have been filmed, and I think the answer is, just because they are full-length novels. Books with so many characters and the great variety of scenes necessitated by a constantly moving plot would, if followed faithfully, episode by episode, result in a film longer than Bernard Shaw's longest play. They can, of course, be reduced to their essential theme without losing anything of their entertainment value; but that is a major work which few people except their authors are usually willing to undertake, and, unfortunately, film magnates have a strange prejudice against letting authors adapt their own books for the film.

Generally speaking, film magnates much prefer to buy the bare bones of a plot and pay anything from six to twenty script writers, most of whom have never had a line of their own composition published in their lives, to elaborate the theme. This invariably costs the company several thousand pounds and, since each of the script writers is dependent for his next job on leaving his individual mark upon the story in hand, the final result is rarely worth one-tenth of the price that has been paid for it. It is this pernicious system of having too many cooks, all with conflicting interests, which results in the story-telling end of film production being on such an extraordinarily low level compared with the other technicalities of the industry.

Having come up against this iron ring of vested interests I thought it would be amusing to try to break into the film game from the other end—by just producing the bare bones
of a scenario and, if it was accepted, let the other fellows fight over the body—and I very nearly succeeded.

One afternoon I went down to Shepherd's Bush to see my old friend Alfred Hitchcock direct the great George Arliss in a film. ‘Hitch' was a most lovable personality, but Mr. Arliss, very conscious of his greatness which, as one of the most fervent of his admirers, I should be the last to deny, was by no means so forthcoming as most of the film stars I have met. Instead of taking any interest in the proceedings or mingling with the other artists on the set during those innumerable delays to which all film production is subject he spent most of the afternoon in the complete seclusion of a small four-sided garden tent which he had had specially erected at one side of the studio. Hidden from our vulgar gaze he remained resting there, while his valet brought him periodic brews of weak China tea served in his own silver service, except for brief intervals when he emerged to say a few lines of his part before the camera with extraordinary artistry.

The bare sight of him, however, was enough to give me the idea that if only I could build a little story suited to such an outstanding personality I should double my chance of having it accepted.

The story, as it appears here, went in to Gaumont British and, to my delight, Angus McPhail, the gifted chief of their story department, was openly enthusiastic about it. But so great a figure was Mr. Arliss that no story was ever bought for him which had not first received his full approval. He read the script over the week-end and turned it down, his reason being, so I was told, that he felt that the love interest was too prominent and, in consequence, detracted from the central character.

If that is so perhaps the multiplicity of writers who work on the average script is not the only reason why the story-telling end of so many films is chaotic and ill proportioned. No story can be done full justice if one character in it must be given pride of place to the detriment of the others.

Naturally, at the time, I was rather disappointed, but not unduly so, as this outline of an exciting film plot had been fun to do and cost me little time or trouble. And, after all, since Mr. Arliss must be well advanced in years it may be
that another actor of his parts is even now climbing towards the throne from which he has enthralled us. Should that be so and the new star chance to read this story, who knows but what it may yet reach a film public of many millions. The film rights are still for sale and praise be to Allah, still my property.

THE TERRORIST
A

DENNIS WHEATLEY

STORY for the Talking Screen

Cast

N
ICHOLAS
THE
VII, K
ING OF
S
ERANOVIA.
George Arliss type
H
IS
W
IFE
, C
AROLINE,
Q
UEEN OF
S
ERANOVIA
A Woman of fifty
L
IEUTENANT
S
ASHA
R
ENESCU
…
A Young Man

(Of the Royal Guard)

S
TEPHANIE
……
A Young Girl

D
OCTOR
R
AILEY
……
A Man of fifty

T
HE
C
HIEF OF THE
P
OLICE

T
HE
C
OLONEL OF THE
G
UARD

Terrorists, Court Officials, Bohemians at the
New Art Club, Crowd, etc.

N
OTE

The present manuscript is only the story in outline, since the limited experience of the author brings him to believe that opportunity should be afforded to the actors in a screen play to build up characterisation thoughout the sequences rather than to produce an elaborate and involved plot which will need considerable cutting to enable the actors to display their personality. Should it be thought necessary, the provision of additional matter for the lengthening of the story is an easy matter as far as the author is concerned.

E
VENING.
A comfortable homely book-lined room. A man of fifty is seated working at a big desk table. He wears a velvet smoking jacket. Near him a charming white-haired woman of about the same age is lying on a sofa. Her legs are covered by a plaid rug; a woollen shawl is round her shoulders. She is busy knitting.

For a moment we watch them. He works silently and rapidly, examining papers, signing them, transferring a large pile from one basket to another. She has a streaming cold. Every time she blows her nose he looks up with mingled irritation and concern. At length he stands up from his desk and, going over to her, says with real solicitude:

‘Caroline, my dear—to see you like this troubles me. You know your chest is not strong. Won't you please go to bed.'