Movie Shoes

  “Quite a kid!”

  Rachel was having the day of her life. Manoff was working his company in a new ballet. It was very technical and fullof lifts and was a pause in the rehearsal, the final touch was given to Rachel’s happiness. Monsieur Manoff himself spoke to her. He asked her how he found his ballet. Rachel was too shy to say much, but she did stammer that It was lovely, and Posy quite perfect. Manoff smiled at that and kissed his fingers toward Posy’s back.

  Such a one is born not once in a century. Each day I wake singing because I have the privilege to work with her.”

  Jane was having a horrible day. It started all right. She found she had a dear little dressing room with a yellow settee and yellow-painted furniture. It was the custom to send flowers to the leading artists on their first day in a new picture, and Mr. Bettelheimer had sent her a Victorian posy, and Mr. Browne a box of gardenias and a fat envelope. In the envelope was a typed list of dog foods. Every sort of delicacy a dog could fancy. Many of them were such grand things that Chewing-gum had never tasted them. On the bottom was written, “Please mark anything Chewing-gum would like and let me have his address.”

  That was the end of the niceness of the day. Shooting had been going on for some time on The Secret Garden. It was turning out to be a difficult picture to make, but everybody who had seen the beginning part of it run through was excited about it and said very nice things about it to Jane’s-Mr. Browne. People had said, “If it goes on this way ... “

  Mr. Browne had smiled and looked confident and answered, “Why not? We’ve David Doe and young Maurice Tuesday.”

  All the important people had said, “That’s so,” and they had not said, what clearly they were thinking, “But you haven’t got Ursula Gidden.”

  Jane’s-Mr. Browne had sighed and thought, “How right they are, I have not,” and he held his thumbs and said over and over again, “Jane will be all right. I know she’ll be all right.”

  Jane, because she had felt unimportant and had made herself disliked ever since she had been at school on the studio lot, had counted more than anyone could have guessed on how wonderful life would be once she had started the part of Mary. It was an important part; everybody be bound to treat her with respect.

  As Mr. Phelps led Jane by the hand onto the set, all the people who were making the picture-Jane’s-Mr. Browne, Mr. Phelps, who was the assistant director, Mr. Browne’s secretary, the camera crew, the lighting men, the electricians, the sound control man, the greens men, were in charge of special effects in the garden, the script girl, the men and women from the wardrobe department, hairdresser, and the still-camera man-looked at her. They had kind, friendly expressions but, of course, showed none of the respect Jane had hoped for because she had done nothing so far for them to respect. They were a hardworking team of men and women whose business was making films, and they were looking at an unknown little English girl and hoping for everybody’s sake that the big risk Mr. Bryan Browne had taken in letting her play the part of Mary going to prove worthwhile.

  Jane found that when he was in the middle of making a picture, Her-Mr. Browne was quite a different person from the Mr. Browne she had seen sitting on his porch. People were import to him only when they were part of making a scene, and be forgot they were even alive when they were not part of a scene. When Mr. Phelps brought Jane onto the set, Mr. Browne wanted her, but he wanted her to be like a piece of Plasticine that he could make into any shape be liked. He put his arm around her and showed her the set. He explained it was a railway carriage, and he was just going to tell her exactly how he wanted her to feel when Jane interrupted him. She honestly thought she was savinghim trouble by letting him know he was wasting his time telling her things she knew already.

  “I know all this. I sit there, and Mrs. Medlock sits there, and we eat our lunch out of a basket and she tell me about my uncle and I tell her about India.”

  Mt Browne would have liked to take Jane by the shoulders and give her a good shake. However, Jane was not his to shake so instead he kept his temper and beckoned Mr. Phelps over and told him to introduce her to Annie and see if she knew her lines. He would take the run-through in a minute.

  Mr. Phelps was young and energetic. His mother had come from Ireland, and Irish people never mind saying what they think. Mr. Phelps was very much like his mother. He had a lot of black hair, and heran a hand through it and looked sternly at Jane. “Will you hold your tongue and do what I tell you?”

  Jane was angry and hurt. This was not the way she had expected things to be. “Why’s My-Mr. Browne gone away? Why’s he looking so cross? I know what I’ve got to do, and I only told him so.”

  “Your Mr. Browne, is it? Well if you want to please your Mr. Browne, you’ll not tell him anything. He’ll tell you.”

  “But why shouldn’t I? I’m being Mary; it’s an important part.”

  Mr. Phelps threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “And you are the living breathing image of Mary.” Then he stopped laughing and looked stern again. “Now, look, I’m your friend. I want to help you. You get any nonsense out of your head about the importance of your part. Young Ursula Gidden, who’s made more money for this company than you or I will ever see, is as mild a child as you would find in a walk I’ll tell you across the world. Remember that, and maybe in a week or two, if you come to me and ask me nicely, you’ll be glad to know.”

  A stout elderly woman with black hair came onto the set. She wore a long full dress of purple, with a black cape trimmed with sequins and a black bonnet with strings under her chin. She came straight up to Jane.

  “Hello, my dear I’m Annie Street. I’m English, too, Yorkshire, what’s more.”

  Jane liked the look of Annie Street. “Are you playing Mrs. Medlock?”

  “Yes, and you’ve got to hate me, so don’t smile like that.” Annie Street turned Mr. Phelps. “Can we have a run-through?”

  Considering that she had never acted, Jane did not find the first day’s shooting very hard. Mary was a child who had been brought up in India, where in the days when The Garden was written, Indian servants spoiled English children abominably and allowed them to treat them in the rudest way. Jane’s-Mr. Browne having got over wanting to shake Jane,came back and worked hard on her. He was sure, from what he had seen of her that Jane could be made to play the scenes with Mrs. Medlock just right. What he did not know was what a help Mr. Phelps was. During a moment when Mr. Browne was ta1king to Annie Street Phelps whispered, “Get it out of your head that that’s Annie Street. There must be somebody you’d like to snub.”

  Jane thought of cool competent Mrs. Gates. Mrs. Gates in her white coat, looking at her as if she were less than a caterpillar.

  “There is.”

  “A he or a she?”

  “A she.”

  “Well, speak to her then, and you’ll do fine.”

  Bee was, to her surprise finding that she liked her first day in the studio. She had been scared that she would feel awkward and in the way with the actors and actresses. Actually there were not many actresses and actors about, for they were not needed in the railway sequences. There was, however, somebody who made Bee feel at home at once.

  Jane had a stand-in, a girl called Shirley Norstrum. Shirley was doing lessons when Jane came on the set. Shirley’s work was to sit or stand in the places where Jane would have to sit or stand when the shooting took place. Focusing on Shirley, the camera and lighting men got their correct positions. While Shirley stood in for Jane, Jane could have her clothes changed or finish her lessons. When she came onto the set, everything was ready for shooting. Stand-ins like Shirley saved time in picture making.

  Like every other child who worked in pictures, Shirley had to have someone to look after her in the studio, and that person was her mother. Mrs. Norstrum was the perfect person for Bee to meet. There was nothing at all about studio life that Mrs. Norstrum did not know. Moreover, her life was much more like life as Bee knew it in England. Mrs. Norstrum
had her housework and her shopping to do, and from what she said, shopping was hard work because many things to eat cost more than people like the Norstrums could afford to pay.

  Listening to Mrs. Norstrum, Bee felt cozier and more at home than she had felt since she arrived.

  “Oh, dear, I’m glad I met you! I was so scared of coming here. But you’ll tell me all the things I want to know and give me a hint if Jane isn’t doing the right things.”

  Mrs. Norstrum liked Bee and smiled, but inside, she felt worried for her. Shirley, of course, went to the studio school. She had not spoken much to Jane, but she knew her, and she knew what everybody thought about her. What Shirley had said was “That Jane Winter is certainly a horrid girl.” So Mrs. Norstrum, wanting to help and liking Bee, dared give a hint. “If Jane does her best, and runs to her lessons when she’s called and plays quietly between shots with Shirley or Maurice or David and their stand-ins, she’ll do fine.”

  At that moment there was a call for silence, as a scene was being shot. Then Jane’s voice could be heard answering Mrs. Medlock, “I shall not want to go poking about.”

  Actually it was said exactly right, in a mixture of Jane’s worst black-doggish and being-grand moods. Although it was right, made Bee sigh. Somehow she could not see Jane running to her lessons and playing quietly with the other children, and she wondered more than ever if she and John had been right to let her act in The Secret Garden.

  19

  Maurice Tuesday

  Shooting had been going on for several days when Jane first met Maurice Tuesday. It was Miss Barnabas who introduced him.

  “Maurice is British, too. You should get on wonderfully.”

  Though she had made no friends in the school, Jane had managed to pick up what the boys and girls thought of Maurice, and it was not complimentary. Actually Miss Barnabas was trying to be kind and helpful in bringing Jane and Maurice together. She thought that since they were of the same nationality and both difficult, they might get on well together. Jane, hating the school, hating Miss Barnabas, bitterly disappointed about the way a person playing the important part of Mary was treated, too proud to tell her family she was miserable, jumped to the conclusion that what Miss Barnabas meant was “You are just as bad as Maurice, whom nobody likes,” which quite honestly Miss Barnabas might have meant, only she did not. So straightaway, without bothering to find out what Maurice was like, Jane pressed her lip together and thought, “We won’t get on wonderfully. I'm going to hate him. I know I am.”

  Maurice was a startlingly good-looking boy. He had fair hair and huge blue-gray eyes, which he could, with no trouble at all, fill with tears. He had been brought to America by his mother as a refugee from London during the Second World War. Even before he acted in pictures, Mrs. Tuesday thought Maurice the most wonderful boy in the world. She thought he was so precious he ought not to mix with children. She hated his going to the studio school and only because the studio threatened to cancel his contract if she insisted on his having a private tutor. The truth was Bee Bee studio company knew that if Maurice had a tutor, he would never do any lessons, for his mother spoiled him he had only to say he didn’t want to do something and he didn’t have to do it.

  After two hours of lessons a call came for Maurice Jane to go to the studio. Since they had still an hour lessons to do, a teacher took them over. She walked behind talking to Maurice’s mother, and Jane and Maurice were on ahead. They just eyed each other at first, like two who have a fight in mind. Then Maurice said, in the most irritating voice, “Wonderful chance for you, playing Mary.”

  Jane quickly turned over rude answers in her mind. “Thank goodness I’m not you, having toact that sissy Colin.”

  Maurice trulythought Jane incredibly ignorant. “That’s the book. Of course, he’s quite different in the film script. My public wouldn’t let me play an unattractive part.”

  Jane felt like a kettle when it’s boiling and the lid’s about toblow out. Maurice was the very top of annoyingness, and the most annoying thing about him was that he was being grand in the way she herself had always wanted tobe. When she was she was able to speak, her voice was rude, even for Jane.

  “Your public! Who are they? We never heard of you before, but we have heard of David Doe.” Out of the comer of her eye Jane saw that Maurice didn’t like that, so she added, “My-Mr. Browne said about David, ‘That boy’s something out of this world’. He didn’t say anything like that about you.”

  Maurice gave a sniggering laugh. “Your-Mr. Browne! That’s funny! I must tell everyone that. Your-Mr. Browne!”

  Jane stopped her eyes shining with temper. “He is My-Mr. Browne. He told me to call him that. Do you know, I think you’re exactly like Colin in the beginning of The Secret Garden, and goodness knows I couldn’t say worse of anybody.”

  They had reached studio twelve. Maurice marched in, but he whispered so the teacher and his mother would not hear, “And I know why they let you play Mary. You’re exactly like she was when the children in India christened her Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.”

  That was the beginning of the bad patch for everybody working on The Secret Garden. Because Jane was acting Mary Her-Mr. Browne was letting her be the real Mary, the sour, crabbed, bad-tempered little girl whom nobody liked in the beginning of the story. That was all right for a day or two, but of course, quite soon there were sequences where Colin and Mary should have begun to make friends with each other. That was hopeless. Maurice, who really could act, was delightful in the scenes, but Jane, who could not, went on speaking to Colin as she went on feeling about Maurice. Her-Mr. Browne cajoled, beseeched, almost prayed. Mr. Phelps tried to help. Miss Steiman worked with Jane on her inflections for hours. Nobody could understand why she could not look pleasant, and smile, and say simple lines like, “The moor is the most beautiful place. Thousands of little creatures live on it. All busy making nests and holes and burrows, and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other.” Miss Steiman swore Jane could say the lines charmingly, with shining eyes as if she could see the moor and the little creatures that lived on it but she did not when Mr. Browne wanted her to.

  What nobody knew except Jane was what Maurice did to her. While he was acting, he looked like an angel, but the moment the cameras stopped turning and the lights were out, he whispered things like “Now you’re for it … Look how depressed everybody is … I should think you’re the worst girl Mr. Browne-Your-Mr. Brown- ever had to direct.” Or, just as they were starting a scene “Even the camera crew have given up hope. They say you stink, which is the worst thing a camera crew can say.” Then, on the words “Silence everybody” there he would be looking angelic.

  Poor Bee suffered terribly. Mrs. Norstrum was as kind as she could be, but even she couldn’t pretend that anybody was pleased with Jane. She knew the studio gossip was that Mr. Browne was losing heart, and it was possible even now that he would postpone production. Jane’s Mr. Browne was as nice to Bee as he could be, but that was not very nice because he was feeling desperate. The cast was kind, and the crew working on the picture was kind; but Bee could see it was just the kindness of people who were sorry for her. The worst thing was that Bee did not know what to say to Jane. She knew that days were being wasted because Jane could not get her scenes right, but she could not blame Jane. After all, Jane had never said she could act; it was Her-Mr. Browne who had given her the part. It was quite natural, really, that Jane should not be able to act; it would have been surprising if she could. Bee thought it would be a mistake to talk about Jane’s studio troubles at home; it couldn’t help poor Jane, and it would perhaps spoil everybody else’s good time.

  Everybody else’s good time was one reason why Bee did not even tell John she was worried. He was so happy and was writing well. Rachel appeared to be enjoying her dancing lessons. Tim though he had not yet appeared on Hiram’s Hour, was practicing for it and seemed in radiant spirits. Even Aunt Cora was cheerful. She was enjoying having her housework done for her and gave herself
over to what she really enjoyed-parties. It was almost Thanksgiving, and she was planning a big party for that as well as for Christmas. Peaseblossom was living in a dream-come-true-world; She had always wanted to travel, and now that John had the car, she was seeing California. They were leaving long expeditions until after Christmas, but already they had been up the mountains, to old Spanish missions along the coast, and to orange and lemon estates. Peaseblossom was a person who was determined not to waste her traveling opportunities.

  Wherever she went she took her camera, a notebook, and three reference books: one on the birds of California; one on the flowers, trees, and shrubs; and one on animals. And whenever the children were near, she tried to educate them.

  Because John and Bee were always going to parties in the evenings with Aunt Cora, and because the California sun had given Bee’s cheeks color and California food was making her latter, John did not at first notice how worried she was. Then one Saturday he did notice and from that minute would not let any time pass before he knew everything.

  “You can’t think how dreadful I feel,” Bee explained. “You said it would do Jane good to shine, but you ought to see what’s happening, poor scrap.”

  “Does she say anything about the part to you?”

  “Not a word. Only that she hates Maurice Tuesday.”

  “What’s the boy really like? I’ve only heard Jane’s view.”

  “I don’t know. I must say he seems a conceited little horror, but he certainly can act. I don’t think it’s his fault he’s the way he is. I simply can’t stand Mrs. Tuesday. I never speak to her more than I can help. She’s a really silly woman. The boy’s father’s dead, and the moment the war started she rushed across the Atlantic to stay with some unfortunate Americans, who must have been driven mad by her. She thinks Maurice is perfect and never stops talking about him, and I’m so ashamed because she’s English.”