his mail
EXCURSION IN REALITY I The commissionaire at Espinoza’s restaurant seems to maintain Nike shoes on sale under his particular authority all the most decrepit taxicabs in London. He is a commanding man; across his great chest the student of military medals may construe a tale of gate valve heroism and experience; Boer farms sink to ashes, fanatical Fuzzi-wuzzies hurl themselves to paradise, supercilious mandarins survey the smashing of their porcelain and rending of fine silk, in that triple row of decorations. He has only to run from the steps of Espinoza’s to call to your service a vehicle as crazy as all the enemies of the King-Emperor.
Half-a-crown into the white cotton glove, because Simon Lent was carton sealing machine too tired to ask for change. He and Sylvia huddled into the darkness on broken springs, between draughty windows. It had been an unsatisfactory evening. They had sat over their table until two because it was an extension night. Sylvia would not drink anything because Simon had said he was broke. So they sat for five or six hours, sometimes silent, sometimes bickering, sometimes exchanging listless greetings with the passing couples. Simon dropped Sylvia at her door; a kiss, clumsily offered, coldly accepted; then back to the attic flat, over a sleepless garage, for which Simon paid six guineas a week.
Outside his door they were sluicing a limousine. He squeezed round mlb jersey it and climbed the narrow stairs, that had once echoed to the whistling of ostlers, stamping down to stables before dawn. (Woe to young men in Mewses! Oh woe, to bachelors half in love, living on ￡800 a year!) There was a small heap of letters on his dressing table, which had arrived that evening while he was dressing. He lit his gas fire and began to open them. Tailor’s bill ￡56, hosier ￡43; a reminder that his club subscription for that year jewelry accessories had not yet been paid; his account from Espinoza’s with a note informing him that the terms were strict, net cash monthly, and that no further credit would be extended to him; it “appeared from the books” of his bank that his last cheque overdrew his account ￡10 16s. beyond the limit of his guaranteed overdraft; a demand from the income-tax collector for particulars of his employees and their wages (Mrs. Shaw, who came in to make his bed and orange juice for 4s. 6d. a day); small bills for books, spectacles, cigars, hair lotion and Sylvia’s last Jordan basketball shoes four birthday presents. (Woe to shops that serve young men in Mewses!)
The other part of his mail was in marked contrast to this. There was a box designer sunglasses of preserved figs from an admirer in Fresno, California; two letters from young ladies who said they were composing papers about his work for their college literary societies, and would he send a photograph; press cuttings describing him as a “popular,” “brilliant,” “meteorically successful,” and “enviable” young novelist; a request for the loan of two hundred pounds from a paralysed journalist; an invitation to luncheon from Lady Metroland; six pages of closely reasoned abuse from a lunatic asylum in the North of England. For the truth, which no one who saw into Simon Lent’s heart could possibly have suspected, was that he was in peep toe pumps his way and within his limits quite a famous young man.
There was a last letter with a typewritten address which Simon opened with little expectation of pleasure. The paper was headed with the name of a Film Studio in one of the suburbs of London. The letter Discount Wedding Dresses was brief and business-like. Dear Simon Lent (a form of address, he had noted before, largely favoured by the theatrical profession), I wonder whether you have ever considered writing for the Films. We should omega fake WATCHES value your angle on a picture we are now making. Perhaps you would meet me for luncheon tomorrow at the Garrick Club and let me know your reactions to this. Will you leave a message with my night-secretary some time before 8 a.m. tomorrow morning or with my day-secretary after that hour.
Cordially yours, Below this were two words written in pen and ink which seemed to be Jewee rip dvd Mecceee with below them the explanatory typescript (Sir James Macrae). Simon read this through twice. Then he rang up Sir James Macrae and informed his night-secretary that he would keep the luncheon appointment next day. He had barely put down the telephone before the ed hardy t-shirts bell rang. “This is Sir James Macrae’s night-secretary speaking. Sir James would be very P90X workout pleased if Mr. Lent would come round and see him this evening at his house in Hampstead.” Simon looked at his watch. It was nearly three. “Well ... it’s rather late to go Coach handbags sale so far tonight ...” “Sir James is sending a car for you.”
Simon was no longer tired. As he waited for the car the telephone rang rocker switch again. “Simon,” said Sylvia’s voice; “are you asleep?” “No, in fact I’m just going out.” “Simon ... I say, was I beastly ed hardy handbags tonight?” “Lousy.” “Well, I thought you were lousy Safety Glasses too.” “Never mind. See you sometime.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve got to solar light supplier do some work.” “Simon, what can you mean?” “Can’t explain now. There’s a car waiting.” “When am I seeing you—tomorrow?” “Well, I don’t really know. Ring me up in the morning. Good night.”
A quarter of a mile away, Sylvia put down the wholesale football jersey telephone, rose from the hearthrug, where she had settled herself in the expectation of twenty minutes’ intimate explanation and crept disconsolately into bed. Simon bowled off to Hampstead through deserted streets. He sat Designer Replica Handbags back in the car in a state of pleasant excitement. Presently they began to climb the steep little hill and emerged into an open space with a pond and the tops of trees, black and deep as a jungle in the darkness. The night-butler admitted him to the low Georgian house and led him to the library, where Sir James Macrae was standing before the fire, dressed in ginger-coloured plus fours. A table was laid with supper. “Evening, Lent. Nice of you to come. Have to fit in business when I can. Cocoa or whisky? Have some rabbit pie, it’s rather good. First chance of a meal I’ve had since breakfast. Ring butterfly valve for some more cocoa, there’s a good chap. Now what was it you wanted to see me about?” “Well, I thought you wanted to see me.”
“Did I? Very likely. Miss Bentham’ll know. She arranged the appointment. You might ring the bell on the desk, will you?” Simon rang and there instantly appeared the neat night-secretary. “Miss Bentham, what did I want to see Mr. Lent about?” “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Sir James. Miss Harper cheap nike air max shoes is responsible for Mr. Lent. When I came on duty this evening I merely found a note from her asking me to fix an appointment as soon as possible.” “Pity,” said Sir James. “We’ll have to wait until Miss Harper comes on tomorrow.” “I think it was something about writing for films.”
“Very likely,” said Sir James. “Sure to be something of the kind. I’ll let you know without delay. Thanks for dropping in.” He put down his cup of cocoa and held out his hand with unaffected cordiality. “Good night, my dear boy.” He rang the bell for the night-butler. “Sanders, I want Benson to run Mr. Lent back.” “I’m sorry, sir. Benson has just gone down to the studio to fetch r4i sdhc Miss Grits.” “Pity,” said Sir James. “Still, I expect you’ll be able to pick up cheap sneakers a taxi or something.” II Simon got to bed at half past four. At ten minutes past eight the telephone by his bed was ringing. “Mr. Lent? This is Sir James Macrae’s secretary speaking. Sir James’s car will call for you at half past eight to take you to the studio.”
“I shan’t be ready as soon as that, I’m afraid.” There was a shocked pause; then, the day-secretary said: “Very well, Mr. Lent. I will see if some alternative arrangement is possible and ring you in a few minutes.” In the intervening time Simon fell asleep again. Then the bell woke him once more and the same impersonal voice addressed him. “Mr. Lent? I have spoken to Sir James. His car will call for you at eight forty-five.” Simon dressed hastily. Mrs. Shaw had not yet arrived, so there was no breakfast for him. He found some stale cake in the kitchen cupboard and was eating it when Sir James’s car arrived. He took a slice down with him, still munching. “You needn’t have brought that,” said a severe voice from inside the car. “Sir James has sent you some breakfast. Get in quickly; we’re late.” In the corner, huddled in rugs, sat a young woman in a jaunty red hat; she had bright eyes and a very firm mouth. “I expect that you are Miss Harper.”
“No. I’m Elfreda Grits. We’re working together on this film, I believe. I’ve been up all night with Sir James. If you don’t mind I’ll go to sleep for twenty minutes. You’ll find a thermos of cocoa and some rabbit pie in the basket on the floor.” “Does Sir James live on cocoa and rabbit pie?” “No; those are the remains of his supper. Please don’t talk. I want to sleep.” Simon disregarded the pie, but poured some steaming cocoa into the metal cap of the thermos flask. In the corner, Miss Grits composed herself for sleep. She took off the jaunty red hat and laid it between them on the seat, veiled her eyes with two blue-pigmented lids and allowed the firm lips to relax and gape a little. Her platinum-blonde wind-swept head bobbed and swayed with the motion of the car as they swept out of London through converging and diverging tram lines. Stucco gave place to brick and the fa?ades of the tube stations changed from tile to concrete; unoccupied building plots appeared and newly planted trees along unnamed avenues. Five minutes exactly before their arrival at the studio, Miss Grits opened her eyes, powdered her nose, touched her lips with red, and pulling her hat on to the side of her scalp, sat bolt upright, ready for another day.
Sir James was at work on the lot when they arrived. In a white-hot incandescent hell two young people were carrying on an infinitely tedious conversation at what was presumably the table of a restaurant. A dozen emaciated couples in evening dress danced listlessly behind them. At the other end of the huge shed some carpenters were at work building the fa?ade of a Tudor manor house. Men in eye-shades scuttled in and out. Notices stood everywhere. Do not Smoke. Do not Speak. Keep away from the high-power cable. Miss Grits, in defiance of these regulations, lit a cigarette, kicked some electric apparatus out of her path, said, “He’s busy. I expect he’ll see us when he’s through with this scene,” and disappeared through a door marked No admittance. Shortly after eleven o’clock Sir James caught sight of Simon. “Nice of you to come. Shan’t be long now,” he called out to him. “Mr. Briggs, get a chair for Mr. Lent.” At two o’clock he noticed him again. “Had any lunch?” “No,” said Simon. “No more have I. Just coming.”
At half past three Miss Grits joined him and said: “Well, it’s been an easy day so far. You mustn’t think we’re always as slack as this. There’s a canteen across the yard. Come and have something to eat.” An enormous buffet was full of people in a variety of costume and make-up. Disappointed actresses in languorous attitudes served cups of tea and hard-boiled eggs. Simon and Miss Grits ordered sandwiches and were about to eat them when a loud-speaker above their heads suddenly announced with alarming distinctness, “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” “Come on, quick,” said Miss Grits. She bustled him through the swing doors, across the yard, into the office buildings and up a flight of stairs to a solid oak door marked Conference. Keep out. Too late. “Sir James has been called away,” said the secretary. “Will you meet him at the West End office at five-thirty.” Back to London, this time by tube. At five-thirty they were at the Piccadilly office ready for the next clue in their treasure hunt. This took them to Hampstead. Finally at eight they were back at the studio. Miss Grits showed no sign of exhaustion. “Decent of the old boy to give us a day off,” she remarked. “He’s easy to work with in that way—after Hollywood. Let’s get some supper.” But as they opened the canteen doors and felt the warm breath of light refreshments, the loud-speaker again announced: “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” This time they were not too late. Sir James was there at the head of an oval table; round him were grouped the chiefs of his staff. He sat in a greatcoat with his head hung forward, elbows on the table and his hands clasped behind his neck. The staff sat in respectful sympathy. Presently he looked up, shook himself and smiled pleasantly. “Nice of you to come,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t see you before. Lots of small things to see to on a job like this. Had dinner?” “Not yet.”
“Pity. Have to eat, you know. Can’t work at full pressure unless you eat plenty.” Then Simon and Miss Grits sat down and Sir James explained his plan. “I want, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce Mr. Lent to you. I’m sure you all know his name already and I daresay some of you know his work. Well, I’ve called him in to help us and I hope that when he’s heard the plan he’ll consent to join us. I want to produce a film of Hamlet. I daresay you don’t think that’s a very original idea—but it’s Angle that counts in the film world. I’m going to do it from an entirely new angle. That’s why I’ve called in Mr. Lent. I want him to write dialogue for us.” “But, surely,” said Simon, “there’s quite a lot of dialogue there already?” “Ah, you don’t see my angle. There have been plenty of productions of Shakespeare in modern dress. We are going to produce him in modern speech. How can you expect the public to enjoy Shakespeare when they can’t make head or tail of the dialogue. D’you know I began reading a copy the other day and blessed if I could understand it. At once I said, ‘What the public wants is Shakespeare with all his beauty of thought and character translated into the language of everyday life.’ Now Mr. Lent here was the man whose name naturally suggested itself. Many of the most high-class critics have commended Mr. Lent’s dialogue. Now my idea is that Miss Grits here shall act in an advisory capacity, helping with the continuity and the technical side, and that Mr. Lent shall be given a free hand with the scenario ...”
The discourse lasted for a quarter of an hour; then the chiefs of staff nodded sagely; Simon was taken into another room and given a contract to sign by which he received ￡50 a week retaining fee and ￡250 advance. “You had better fix up with Miss Grits the times of work most suitable to you. I shall expect your first treatment by the end of the week. I should go and get some dinner if I were you. Must eat.” Slightly dizzy, Simon hurried to the canteen where two languorous blondes were packing up for the night. “We’ve been on since four o’clock this morning,” they said, “and the supers have eaten everything except the nougat. Sorry.” Sucking a bar of nougat Simon emerged into the now deserted studio. On three sides of him, to the height of twelve feet, rose in appalling completeness the marble walls of the scene-restaurant; at his elbow a bottle of imitation champagne still stood in its pail of melted ice; above and beyond extended the vast gloom of rafters and ceiling. “Fact,” said Simon to himself, “the world of action ... the pulse of life ... Money, hunger ... Reality.” Next morning he was called with the words, “Two young ladies waiting to see you.” “Two?” Simon put on his dressing gown and, orange juice in hand, entered his sitting room. Miss Grits nodded pleasantly. “We arranged to start at ten,” she said. “But it doesn’t really matter. I shall not require you very much in the early stages. This is Miss Dawkins. She is one of the staff stenographers. Sir James thought you would need one. Miss Dawkins will be attached to you until further notice. He also sent two copies of Hamlet. When you’ve had your bath, I’ll read you my notes for our first treatment.”
But this was not to be; before Simon was dressed Miss Grits had been recalled to the studio on urgent business. “I’ll ring up and tell you when I am free,” she said. Simon spent the morning dictating letters to everyone he could think of; they began—“Please forgive me for dictating this, but I am so busy just now that I have little time for personal correspondence ...” Miss Dawkins sat deferentially over her pad. He gave her Sylvia’s number. |
