Araluen (16 page)

‘I expect to be the first person on the invitation list,’ Peter Lynell said as they were about to board, and he shook Franklin’s hand warmly. ‘Just as soon as you set the date.’ Peter had changed his attitude towards Penelope and whatever rift had crept into his friendship with Franklin was now well and truly healed.

‘I’m deeply grateful to you, Peter. For everything.’ Franklin meant it. His business in London had gone exceedingly well and he considered Peter Lynell directly responsible for his success. Through Peter he had acquired valuable contacts in the Home Office and had already secured an army contract for the supply of a range of leathergoods.

Samuel Crockett lived in Bel-Air and his house was exactly as Franklin had envisaged. It was huge and opulent – ostentatious perhaps, but not in bad taste. In fact the furnishings and decorations were
of the highest quality. It was a mansion, and testimony to Samuel Crockett’s wealth, complete with kidney-shaped swimming pool, outdoor tennis courts, billiards room, and private movie theatre.

Sam himself was as big and as loud and as effusive as ever – and just as arrogant. But not with Franklin. Franklin Ross was the one man who had earned Sam’s respect, the one man to whom he owed his life – and big Sam Crockett wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

Together with his wife, Lucy-Mae, Sam was a generous host and the two of them made Franklin and Penelope feel immediately welcome.

‘I’ve heard all about you, Mr Ross. Now you don’t mind if I call you Franklin, do you?’ Lucy-Mae dragged his face down to hers, kissing him on both cheeks and, before Franklin could answer, she took Penelope’s hands in her own and stood back in open admiration. ‘Why, Penelope, you’re pretty as a picture, I swear. Welcome to you both.’ More kisses on Penelope’s cheeks, then came introductions to Davy Junior.

Sam hoisted the child up with one hand, holding him aloft like a sack of potatoes, and the two-year-old squealed with delight. He was a solid, beefy infant who held every promise of growing into a replica of his father.

Lucy-Mae wasn’t beefy. Despite the fact that she was nearly seven months pregnant, she was tiny and birdlike, pretty in a slightly beaky way, with eyes that darted about, not missing a thing. But Lucy-Mae wasn’t fragile. She wore gold bracelets that jangled when she moved and she was
extremely confident and assured of her place in the scheme of things. She was Sam Crockett’s wife, mother to his son and heir, and just about to give birth to his second child. Furthermore, she ran his home and household staff with the precision of a sergeant major and entertained his guests with true Southern hospitality and style. It never occurred to Lucy-Mae that her existence was in any way subservient and she would have been appalled if anyone had suggested it.

Penelope obviously passed muster with Sam, and for a brief moment Franklin couldn’t help but compare the respect he afforded her with his insulting treatment of Millie. But it was only a fleeting thought – Millie Tingwell was rarely on Franklin’s mind. He had no regrets about his actions and no desire to discover the sex of the child she must have given birth to since his departure from Australia. The rare thoughts he had of her were purely carnal and a result of his state of celibacy.

Although Sam was indeed aware that Penelope was a good middle-class girl, the respect he afforded her was actually part and parcel of the respect he afforded Franklin. Over the ensuing weeks, however, he recognised Penelope’s strength and decided that if the girl could rid herself of her silly career fixation, she would make a fine wife for Franklin.

Several days after their arrival, Sam took them on a guided tour of the elite areas, pointing out the homes of the Hollywood stars. Most of them were mansions nearly as grand as Sam’s and Franklin realised that to live like this was de rigeur
in the upper echelons of Tinsel Town. He also realised that he vastly preferred the elegance of The Colony House.

‘HOLLYWOODLAND
– you see that?’ Sam had instructed the driver to take them to Mount Lee and now he pointed to the massive letters which successfully destroyed the beauty of the virgin hillside. ‘Just about sums up this town,’ he said. ‘They all come here like it’s some special fairyland that’s going to make their dreams come true.’

He again indicated the sign. ‘That there’s become quite a favourite suicide spot ever since a kid who couldn’t make it threw herself off the “D” a few years back. A whole heap of them have done it since. They just can’t get it through their skulls that movies aren’t magic, movies are money.’

‘Which “D”?’ Penny asked.

‘Pardon?’ Sam looked at her blankly.

‘Which “D” did she jump off?’

‘The one at the end, I do believe.’

Sam was true to his word and, less than a fortnight after they arrived, Penelope Jane Greenway was tested at the Minotaur studios.

The test was a formality only, the studio executives having been instructed that Penelope was to be cast regardless of the outcome. They gave their customary sigh of resignation at the waste of time and prepared to shove her somewhere in the background of Minotaur’s latest low-budget B-grade.

But the test was surprisingly successful. It revealed that Penelope Jane Greenway’s beauty and charm did not escape the camera lens and, as with the several stage productions in which she’d
performed, an absence of talent did not necessarily put her out of the running.

‘She could well play the third blonde in the Thelma Todd movie,’ the director said to the producer. ‘She’s the same build as Thelma – stick a blonde wig on her and she’d be perfect.’

True Blonde
was a vehicle Minotaur had purchased hoping to attract Jean Harlow. They hadn’t, but, after lengthy negotiations, they’d managed to entice Thelma Todd away from the Hal Roach farce she’d been about to accept, and they were due to go into production in three months’ time. As
True Blonde
was a comedy about mistaken identity, the next step was to find three blondes who could easily be mistaken for Thelma. They’d found two and Penelope appeared to be an ideal number three.

‘It’s a nice cameo role, number three,’ the producer said with a touch of uncertainty. ‘We wouldn’t want her to fuck it up. Let’s shove her in the party scene of
Harlequin Horror
and see how she goes.’

Two weeks later, Penelope was engaged to play a ‘guest’ in the final scene of a low-budget horror film which the studio was just completing. Along with twenty other people in harlequin costumes she was required to witness a particularly horrific murder.

The movie was being shot in a grubby old tin shed in the backlot behind the modern studios. The tin shed, fondly referred to as ‘The Sweatbox’, had been the original studio in which a string of successful silent films had been made in the twenties. When the talkies arrived and many studios
found themselves on the brink of extinction, it was Sam Crockett who stepped in and saved Minotaur and the old tin shed. He bought the company for a song and, although he didn’t know much about movies, he appointed people who did. Minotaur blossomed, a whole new studio complex was built and it was only the old tin shed itself which was threatened with extinction. However, a band of die-hards who had survived the transition from silent movies to sound appealed to Sam’s sentimentality and now the old studio remained as a symbol of a bygone era. But Sam demanded that it earn its keep, so he set up a sound stage there. All year round, Minotaur’s cheapies were churned out of the old tin shed.

During summer, every single cast and crew member who worked in The Sweatbox dropped at least half a stone, and a new term was born into a profession which thrived on in-house slang. When actors were out of work they were ‘resting’ and when they were filming a low-budget movie for Minotaur they were ‘dieting’. To the many actors and crew who spent their entire lives ‘dieting’, the term became one of endearment. Why sneer? There was quite a lucrative living to be made out of ‘dieting’.

The party scene of
Harlequin Horror
was a garden setting and the day’s shoot included a number of fetching shots of Penelope. Penelope peering from behind an imitation Trevi Fountain. Penelope leaning up against a palm tree. There was even a close-up of Penelope looking attractively horrified as a severed jugular gushed forth copious quantities of blood.

The close-up was the true test. The director, aware that the censorship laws wouldn’t allow him to have the screen awash with blood, needed to cut away from the slit throat to the reactions of the onlookers.

‘You must reflect the horror of what you see,’ he instructed Penelope when it was her turn and, while the make-up artist prepared her face for the close-up, he described in ghastly graphic detail what would happen when a person’s jugular vein was severed.

To inspire her to greater heights, he repeated the description during the shooting of the close-up, but Penelope found it difficult to equate his grisly details with the semidecapitated wax dummy lying on the fake grass beside the fake fountain under the fake palm tree.

‘You’re horrified,’ the director said. ‘As you watch, the blood spurts from his open neck like water from a burst main … ‘ The dummy stared up at her with an idiotic grin on its face. ‘You’re repulsed,’ the director continued. ‘The blood is spouting with such force it’s like the jets of the fountain behind him … ‘ Penelope could see the stagehand, sweat pouring from his brow, fiendishly working the water pump which fed the Trevi fountain. ‘His body is twitching in death. His blood splatters the grass and the nearby palm tree like spray from a sprinkler … ‘ The director very much believed in the inspirational power of the metaphor.

Penelope was doing her best. She looked at the palm tree and tried to imagine it splattered with blood. But the palm tree was a cut-out, propped
up with a sandbag. She’d made the mistake of leaning against it in an earlier shot.

‘No, don’t
lean’
the director had shouted.

‘But you told me to.’

‘No, honey,
pretend.
Don’t lean. Just
pretend
to lean.’

Everything was pretend and Penny found it a little confusing. In the theatre she’d been accustomed to weeks of rehearsals where actors discussed sub-text and motivation and interrelationships. In Hollywood it appeared such depth wasn’t necessary.

Confusing it may have been, but it was also hugely exciting and Penny decided if it was pretend they wanted, then pretend they’d get. She looked down at the dummy and started pretending for all she was worth.

Ten minutes later, the director tried a different tack. ‘Tell you what, sweetheart, we’ll give it another go and this time around let’s do nothing, OK?’

‘Nothing?’

‘That’s right. Don’t move a muscle. Just stare at the body.’

‘But what about the blood?’

‘Forget about the blood, don’t think about the blood, don’t think about anything. Just stare at the body.’

So Penelope stared. And she continued to stare while the camera moved in closer and closer and closer.

‘Love it. Stunning. Love it.’ The producer and the
director were sitting in the darkened theatrette watching Penelope’s face on the screen as the camera moved in closer and closer on the porcelain skin, the clear brow, the wide, hazel-green eyes and the perfect mouth, lips unwittingly parted.

‘Freeze that, Joe,’ the director called to the projectionist. ‘We can use a still of that close-up for the publicity campaign. “What did the girl see? – buy a ticket to
Harlequin Horror
and find out”.’

The producer nodded in agreement. ‘Good idea. I’ll get publicity on to it.’

‘You can read into that face whatever you want to read into it,’ the director continued enthusiastically. ‘The secret is to stop the girl trying to act.’

The producer nodded again. ‘Give her the third blonde.’

‘I got the job! Oh, Franklin, I got the job!’

Franklin had been secretly hoping that she wouldn’t, but the sheer joy in Penelope’s face made him glad that she had.

‘And it’s a big-budget movie. Well, middle, really,’ she corrected herself; one had to be truthful. ‘It means I’m not dieting any more, I’m out of The Sweatbox.’ Penelope was always quick to pick up on the current jargon.

‘But you don’t need to diet.’

‘Some people work in The Sweatbox for years – their whole lives even – and I’m out in just one movie.’

‘Congratulations, my darling.’ Franklin gave up
trying to work out what she was talking about. That evening they did the rounds of the nightspots Sam recommended. Aperitifs at the Seven Seas, dinner at the Brown Derby then on to the Trocadero, and ending up at the Cotton Club. Everywhere they went Penelope recognised faces she’d seen on the screen. It was the kind of evening she adored and Franklin loathed, but he was prepared to humour her.

The following day they discussed their plans. Although
True Blonde
didn’t go into production for two months, Penelope was on call for costume and wig fittings, publicity stills and numerous other studio requirements. Franklin needed to return to Sydney.

‘When you finish filming,’ he said, ‘you’re to join me in Australia. It’ll be an autumn wedding, my darling, and then – ’

‘But Franklin … my career. I told you … ’

‘I know, I know, don’t worry, I’ve planned it all perfectly. We’ll come back together – well before the premiere and in time for your promotional tour.’ Franklin smiled as he put an arm around her. ‘See? I’ve learned all the correct terminology. I checked things through with Sam and they intend to finish shooting the movie by February, then there’s several months of postproduction before you’re required for promotions. Time for us to marry in Sydney and honeymoon on the way back. Just think! An autumn wedding and then a sea voyage, the two of us, in the finest stateroom, aboard the finest passenger vessel ever to travel the Seven Seas. What do you say?’

There was very little Penelope
could
say. She
didn’t relish the thought of returning to Australia but there was no longer any question in her mind that she did want to marry Franklin. She gave in with good grace.

‘That sounds perfect, my darling,’ she said. They kissed deeply and, as usual, Penelope wanted the kiss to go further. Ever since that day in Worthing she’d been waiting for Franklin to demand a little more but he never did.