Consider Her Ways (12 page)

Both of them turned to study Peggy with severely professional regards. Presently the Irish young man said:

‘Do you know? I think you've got something …' with a serious conviction which started Peggy blushing until she discovered he was addressing his colleague.

After that, though, they stopped being professional, and it was a lovely evening right up to the time they took her home in a car, to the astonishment of those still awake in Barranacleugh.

A week later there came another, and longer, typewritten letter. After congratulating her on her success, it informed her that a proposition laid before the Board of Popular Amalgamated Television, Ltd, by Mr Robbins, whom she would doubtless recall, had been approved. The Company therefore had great pleasure in inviting her, etc., and hoped that the following arrangements would be acceptable … A car would call for her at Barranacleugh at 8 a.m. on the morning of Wednesday, the 16th …

Enclosed with the letter was an air-ticket from Dublin to London, and, pinned to it, a handwritten note which said: ‘Worked like a charm so far. Brush up your Yeats. Will meet you London Airport – Bill Robbins.'

A wave of excitement swept through the village, only slightly modified by the general inability to understand what Peggy's Yeats might be.

‘But, never mind,' said Eileen, after consideration. ‘'Tis likely 'tis the English way of sayin' to get a perm. So I'd try that.'

And on Wednesday, sure enough, a car arrived, and Peggy was swept away in it more elegantly than any previous emigrant had ever left Barranacleugh.

In the London airport arrival-hall there was Mr Robbins, waving a hand in greeting, and making his way through the crowd to greet her.

Somebody let off a quite alarming flash, and then Peggy found herself being introduced to a large, comfortable-looking lady in a black suit and a silver fox fur.

‘Mrs Trump,' explained Mr Robbins. ‘Mrs Trump's function is to guide you, advise you, look after you generally, and fight off the wolves.'

‘Wolves?' said Peggy, startled.

‘Wolves,' he assured her, ‘the place is crawling with 'em.'

She suddenly understood.

‘Oh, I see. You mean the American kind that whistle?' she asked.

‘Well, that's how they
start
. Though they come under all flags, I assure you.'

Then she, and Mr Robbins, and Mrs Trump, and an unhappy-looking man with a camera who was just known as Bert, all got into a big car, and were driven off.

‘Our people fell for it in quite a big way,' Mr Robbins told Peggy. ‘In about a couple of hours' time you meet the Press. Day after tomorrow I've fixed up for you to see George Floyd. But not a word about him to the Press boys and girls. Watch that. It wouldn't do to look as if we were trying to force his hand. And there's a one-minute spot for you on our programme tomorrow night.

‘Just now, however, we've got to think up something to tell the Press about you. What about your family, for instance? Have they played any important part in history? Soldiers? Sailors? Explorers?'

Peggy thought.

‘Well, there was me great-great-grandfather. He went to Someone's land. Would that be exploring, now?'

‘Not in the usual sense. And some time ago, too. Something more recent?'

Peggy reconsidered.

‘There was some of me mother's brothers that were grand at burnin' the English houses,' she suggested.

‘Not quite the angle, perhaps. Try again,' urged Mr Robbins.

‘I don't know – oh, there was my Uncle Sean, of course. He was quite famous.'

‘What did he do? Blow things up?' inquired Bert hopefully.

‘Oh, I don't think so. But he got himself shot in the end by another very famous man called Al Capone,' Peggy said.

The Consort Hotel, when they reached it, turned out to be a proud place indeed, but they went through the foyer with an accomplished flying-wedge to avoid any journalist who might be trying to jump the gun, and were whizzing upwards before Peggy could really take it in.

‘Would this be an elevator, now?' she inquired with interest.

‘It could be – though if the Americans had run really true to form it would be a Vertical Personnel Distributor.
We
call it a lift,' Bert told her.

In a thickly carpeted corridor they paused outside a numbered door, and Mrs Trump spoke for the first time.

‘Now you two. Beat it into the sitting-room. And keep sober,' she instructed.

‘You've got just half an hour, Dulcie. No more,' Mr Robbins told her.

They entered a luxurious room which was mostly shades of grey-green with gold pickings. A girl in a neat black silk dress was already there, and, laid out on the iridescent eiderdown, were a smart grey suit, a green silk dress, and a long, shining white frock.

‘We've got to get cracking, Honor,' announced Mrs Trump. ‘Turn on that bath. And she'd better wear the green.'

Peggy went to the bed, lifted the green dress, and held it against her.

‘'Tis a darlin' dress, Mrs Trump, and just right for me. How did you know?'

‘Mr Robbins told us your size and colouring. So we chanced it.'

‘Well, 'tis very clever you all are to be sure. I expect you must have had lots of experience of looking after girls like me.'

‘Well, I was twelve years in the Service,' Mrs Trump told her, as she struggled out of her jacket and cleared for action.

‘In the W.R.A.C.?' asked Peggy.

‘No, Holloway,' said Mrs Trump. ‘Now come along, dearie, we've none too much time.'

‘Keep
still
,' instructed Bert, and went on crouching, and creeping about the carpet.

‘Modern photographer's ritual dance,' explained Mr Robbins.

‘You don't have to turn to face me,' said Bert, from his knees. ‘What I'm after is the three-quarter. Hold it like that.' He shuffled round a bit. ‘Now take the pose.'

Peggy stood rigidly still. Bert lowered his camera, wearily.

‘Be jabers, would they be after not having cameras at all, at all, in Barranacleugh?' he inquired.

‘They would not,' Peggy told him.

‘All right. We'll start from first principles then. Stand where you are. Put your arms behind your back and clasp your hands together. Now look down here at the camera. That's right. Now press your elbows closer together, and smile. No, better than that: every tooth you've got. Never mind if it feels like a ghastly grin to you, the art editor knows best. That's more like it. Now hold the smile. Keep pressing your elbows together, and take a deep breath, deep as you can. That the best you can do? It looks almost normal – oh well …'

There was a vivid flash. Peggy relaxed.

‘Was that all right?'

‘You'll be surprised,' said Bert. ‘We can teach nature a thing or two, we can.'

‘It seems a lot of fadiddle just for a photograph,' said Peggy.

Bert looked at her.

‘Mavourneen,' he said, ‘have you
seen
a photograph lately?' He reached for a picture-paper and flipped over a page or two. ‘Voilà!' he said, handing it across.

‘Oh,' said Peggy. ‘D'you mean it's like that I'll be looking?'

‘That is what I mane – mean, damn it – more or less,' Bert assured her.

Peggy continued to study the picture.

‘Would she be kind of gone wrong now – deformed, do they call it?' she inquired.

‘This,' Bert told her severely, ‘is called glamour – or glamor – and any more heresy or sacrilege out of you, young woman, and you'll find yourself booked for the stake.'

‘What they call in America the hot-squat?' Peggy suggested.

Mr Robbins intervened.

‘Come,' he said, ‘there is another qualification for the hot-squat, and that is to keep the Press waiting. Now remember what we agreed in the car. And keep off the drinks. They're meant to soften them up, not us.'

‘Well,' said Mr Robbins, relaxing. ‘That's that. Now
we
can have a drink. Mrs Trump? Miss MacRafferty?'

‘A small port and lemon, please,' said Mrs Trump.

‘Er – a highball, with rye,' said Peggy.

Mr Robbins frowned.

‘Miss MacRafferty, your studies appear to have been extensive, but erratic. You mustn't mix your territories. I shall not translate. I shall recommend for you the product of our native Mr Pimm.'

When the drinks arrived he sank half his own triple whisky with satisfaction.

‘Pretty good, Bert?' he remarked.

‘Good enough,' agreed the photographer, but without enthusiasm. ‘Not bad at all. Yes, you did nicely, Mavourneen. You're all set.'

Peggy brightened a little.

‘Is that the truth, now? I was thinking most of them – the important ones – were not noticing me at all.'

‘Don't you believe it, my dear. They notice. Though it doesn't matter much about the men. It's the sisters you want to watch, particularly if they come at you sweetly – and they didn't.' He emptied his glass, and held it out to be refilled. ‘Funny thing about them and girls. There's a kind of girl that'll bring all their
claws out at fifty yards; another that'll set them wrinkling their noses at twenty; then there's a bigger lot that doesn't register much – just the new crop coming into the old mill; and every now and then there's one that makes 'em go absent-minded for a moment. “The things that I have seen I now can see no more.” Gives you quite a jolt to realize that even for them there was once a glimpse of the celestial light. Sic transit treviter gloria mundi.' He sighed.

‘In vino morbida,' observed Mr Robbins.

‘You mean tristitia,' suggested Bert.

‘And what the devil would the both of you be talking about at all?' inquired Peggy.

‘The fleeting moment, my dear,' Bert told her. He groped beside his chair, and swung up his camera. ‘But fast as it flits I can make at least its shadow stand. I now propose to take one or two
real
pictures.'

‘Oh dear, I thought all that was over,' said Peggy.

‘Perhaps soon – but not yet, not quite,' Bert told her, holding up his meter.

Well, even if English people were a little mad, they had been quite kind and nice to her. So Peggy put down her glass, and stood up. She shook out her skirt, patted her hair, and took up the pose as before.

‘Like that?' she asked him.

‘No,' said Bert. ‘
Not
like that …'

The next day Peggy had her television ‘spot', wearing the white brocade dress – ‘our recent prizewinner who will soon be winning prizes on the screen too' – and everyone was very nice and kind about it, and seemed to think it had gone well.

Then the following day there was the interview with Mr Floyd, who turned out to be nice, too, though there was really much more to it than just an interview. She had not expected to have to walk about and sit down and get up and register this and that in front of cameras quite so soon, but Mr Floyd seemed quite
pleased and Mr Robbins patted her shoulder as they left, and said: ‘Good girl! I sometimes wish
I
could look as if I were seeing fairies in
W
13, but I suppose I'd be misunderstood.'

In a gesture well known to the industry George Floyd ran his fingers through his profuse, greying hair.

‘After those tests, you've got to admit she
has
something,' he insisted. ‘She's definitely photogenic, she can move well, she looks fresh. If she doesn't know much about acting yet, well nor do most of 'em, and at least she's not picked up any of the regular tricks and gimmicks. She can take direction, she tried; and furthermore she has charm. She could do a pretty job, and I'd like to use her.'

Solly de Kopf removed his cigar.

‘I'll allow she's a good looker in her way,' he admitted, ‘but she ain't contemporary like the customers expect. She talks kinda funny, too,' he added.

‘A bit of speech-training'll take care of that all right. She's not dumb,' said George.

‘Maybe. What do you think of her, Al?' Solly inquired of his henchman.

Al Foster said judicially:

‘She mugs well,' he admitted. ‘Good height, nice legs. But it's like you said, Chief, she ain't contemporary. But her middle number's okay – around twenty-two, I reckon. That's the important one, the others fix pretty easy. I'll say she
could
do, Chief. Ain't no Lolo, though.'

‘Hell, why
should
she be a Lolo?' George inquired. ‘Imitation Lolos are practically a major Italian export. It's getting time somebody put up something different, and she could be it.'

‘Different?' said Solly, suspiciously.

‘Different,' repeated George, firmly. ‘There's a time when these things work themselves out. You should know, Solly – remember what happened to
Spotlight on My Heart?
That was a sure-fire, night-club-star epic – only it happened to be your
ninth, and it didn't fire. It's time we gave Italian romance a rest for a bit.'

‘But Italy ain't worked out yet. It's still big money,' de Kopf objected. ‘Why, right now Al's on to a thing called
The Stones of Venice
we're aiming to buy just as soon as we can locate a copy and sign up the author. And before that we've got a regular blown in the bottle sex number lined up. Seems the Romans – the old Romans, not this present lot – were short on women some way, so they cooked up the idea of inviting all the guys from the next city over to some kind of stag-party, and then while the fun was on they sent out a gang that rounded up all the other guys' wives, and made off with 'em. Lot of scope there; real genuine historical incident, too. I had that checked, so it's classical and okay. We'll have to find a new title, though. It's shocking what they let 'em get away with in books – just imagine trying to get past with a
picture
called
The Rape of the Sabrinas
.'