Scatter the Stars, page 31
The dance teacher pursed his lips. ‘The office will hear about this, Mr Storm. Definitely hear about it.’
Randy was depressed and bored. This was not how he’d imagined life in Hollywood. He wandered around the lot. The huge sound stages looked like great up-ended cement boxes, utterly sterile from the outside. Yet inside their cavernous interiors, fantasy worlds were created, life-and-death dramas, the whole comedy of life was played out before the unblinking eyes of the massive cameras.
Small trailers and caravans were dotted around sound stages where films were shooting. Low buildings housed dressing rooms, temporary offices and production facilities that changed with each film. Randy peered at the cardboard sign tacked on one of the doorways. Rear Window. Who’s rear window, he wondered, and would this movie collect an Oscar or be forgotten? Then, as if on cue, an actor in a dressing gown, tissues stuck around his collar to keep the orange screen make-up off his clothing, came out the door and Randy looked at the familiar features of Jimmy Stewart. ‘Hiya, buddy. Goin’ in?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ Randy went through the door marked Unit Continuity rather than admit to such a star that he was just stickybeaking. He wandered past rooms cluttered with papers, photographs and drawings stuck on walls. In one bare office, a man wearing a hat slept with his feet up on his desk beside an old Remington typewriter. Newspapers were scattered on the floor. Despite the messy setting there was an ambience to the rooms which suggested that out of mundane chaos, dreams could be created.
Back in the sunshine, Randy headed past the elegant mock Tudor building where the executives and studio bosses had grand offices facing flowerbeds and clipped green lawns. Behind an elegant colonnade, covered in a flowering vine, was a row of the stars’ bungalows, entire suites with kitchens and bathrooms. It was an exclusive mini neighbourhood for the top stars. He imagined Clark Gable, Joan Crawford or Cary Grant could be inside any of them right now, reading a script, having a glass of champagne, eating some delicacy. It was a warming thought, but it also reminded him he was hungry. He bypassed the main commissary because it was too expensive and too noisy. And it was no fun on your own. There was a crew cafeteria near the west gate that he preferred and he headed there whistling brightly, occasionally breaking into a little dance step.
He caught up to a girl with short blonde curls. ‘Hey, I recognise that neat butt!’
She spun around with an angry frown which melted as she saw who had spoken. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Yep. Hey, sorry I kicked you in the backside in that damned class.’
‘Apology accepted,’ she answered with a fluttery smile. ‘You didn’t seem very at home, I must say.’ She looked up from under her lashes. ‘I thought you were very good in Voyage to Paradise.’
‘Thanks. And what big movies are you currently starring in? What name is up there in lights?’
She giggled and held out her hand. ‘Not yet. I’m Nancy. Nancy Armitage. I’m just a dancer. Though I’m working on my singing. Are you going to Voice this afternoon?’
‘Voice? Does God speak? Do we speak with one voice?’ He mimicked a deep ethereal voice, gave a laugh and shook his head, speaking normally. ‘Strike a light, do they devise all these things to keep us out of trouble?’ declared Randy. ‘This is like the army!’
‘We can’t be on a set every day. And as they’re paying us by the week, I suppose this makes it seem like they’re getting something for their money. This way they have a big pool of really talented people right under their roof.’ She gave him a happy smile.
He looked at her trusting eyes, sweet face, and a body that she seemed unaware of. This girl hadn’t been in Hollywood very long, he surmised.
‘Nancy, you strike me as one of those nice people who see the good side of everything.’
Her smile faded and she looked slightly cross. ‘Well, it’s better than complaining about things all the time.’
‘I’m not whingeing.’
She looked puzzled. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘To whine and complain. Look. I’m smiling.’ He put fingers at the ends of his mouth and stretched his lips into a huge grin making her laugh. ‘I’m on my way to the cafeteria for a sandwich. Want to join me?’
She was what he’d always called cute. And naive. He learned she was from a happy home in Nebraska, had won a string of dance contests and a regional beauty pageant. One of the prizes was a trip to Hollywood and a meeting with a top Hollywood talent scout. ‘I was signed up by Five Star, but so far I’ve only made it to the third row in a Fred and Ginger sequence and a one-line part as a hat-check girl in a gangster movie. Mr Sinatra was in it. He was lovely.’
Randy gave her a nudge. ‘Did the talent scout show you to his casting couch?’
She looked prim for a moment, then burst into giggles. ‘He tried. It was so silly. He took off his jacket and pointed to the couch and he said to me, “Hop on honey, this is where you get into the big time.” I just laughed at him and he got all red and told me to beat it. I’d heard about these agents, the pageant organisers told me to tell anyone that tried anything that my father was Angelo the Greek.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tossed her curls. ‘Anyway, if I can’t do it on my own, I won’t bother.’
‘Good luck, sweetheart.’
Her fascination with his Australian accent led to a discussion about acquiring a versatile accent, so she talked him into going with her to the voice class. ‘You’ll get in their bad books if you don’t go to these things. Surely they’re watching you, being a new star on the lot and everything. They can take money out of your pay, you know. Claim it was owed for this and that. They’re really mean with money. Everyone thinks when you’re in movies you make big bucks,’ sighed Nancy.
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Randy, sympathetically, thinking of what had seemed a fortune back in New Guinea. Here his two hundred and fifty dollars a week was trickling away like a leaky tap.
‘Even the big stars are still on low pay,’ confided Nancy as they headed to the line waiting to be served in the noisy crowded cafeteria. ‘You know, some of them were signed to seven-picture contracts and even though they’ve made big films, they’re still getting what they signed on for.’
‘You’re kidding. That’s rough,’ said Randy with alarm, hoping Ariel hadn’t got him tied up like that.
‘You know what some of the stars do when they’re making a picture here?’ whispered Nancy, rather enjoying her role as the more experienced Hollywood hopeful.
Randy shook his head and leaned close to listen.
‘They live in their dressing rooms! They have to pay off the cops on the gate and the security men, but they save their rent that way.’
She gazed up at him waiting for his reaction to the mighty piece of gossip.
‘Well, it’s probably better than the local youth hostel,’ said Randy with a smile.
For Randy the voice class seemed even more disconcerting than the dance class. ‘God, what would Mac say if he could see me here doing this?’ he wondered, and the thought buoyed his sagging spirit. They stood around doing breathing exercises, making funny gargling noises, imitating a piano scale as a dog, a cat, a duck. Nancy couldn’t look at Randy for fear she’d break into giggles at his astonishment.
Then the teacher got around to the speech segment. He handed out sheets of paper with various monologues that the class had to read in a variety of American accents. He was well aware that Randy was not an enthusiastic participant. ‘As you are Australian, we need to work a lot on your accent and voice.’ He gave a snide hint of a smile. ‘Can’t play Australians forever – might limit your roles, wouldn’t you say?’ There was a slight titter in the class. Most considered Randy had lucked out with the role of the Australian colonial administrator in Voyage to Paradise.
‘Too right, sport,’ said Randy in a broad accent, exaggerated for effect.
The teacher winced and rose from the stool. He walked to a record player and flipped through some of the discs beside the speakers. ‘Today we’ll do Texas. Austin, to be precise. We also have New Orleans, Connecticut and Iowa. Please read your set piece, listen to the accent and read it as best you can.’ He played all the accents through several times then selected actors to listen to a particular accent and read from the script in it. Some struggled, some managed to do well enough to be envied by the majority.
‘Now, Mr Storm. Do you have a choice? Like to start with something easy?’ The teacher raised a quizzical eyebrow and Randy fought to control his temper. ‘Nah, whatever you want,’ he replied with studied nonchalance, reinforced by flopping back in his chair and tipping it back on two legs.
‘Perhaps we should start with a little more of the Australian accent . . .’ The class chuckled at the teacher’s joke.
Nancy gave Randy a supportive smile.
‘Nope. An Aussie accent might be too hard for you blokes. Okay. Why don’t I just run through your lot, one to five?’ Randy suggested with a hint of finality.
‘All the accents? My! Very well.’ The teacher played the first accent – mainstream New Orleans. He stopped the player and nodded at Randy.
Randy leaned forward, straightened up and read his small speech in a New Orleans accent almost indistinguishable from the recording. There was a buzz of astonishment in the class. The teacher shuffled his papers. ‘Not bad. Broad accents tend to be easier, let’s try something a bit more subtle.’
Randy read through all the speeches in a perfect imitation of each accent. His natural gift for mimicry and all his years in radio made this exercise no challenge at all.
Far from praise, the teacher had trouble disguising his dismay and irritation at having completely misread the character of the young Australian.
Randy stuffed the papers in his hip pocket. ‘I’ll be off then.’ And in his roughest ocker tones added, ‘See you blokes later, orright?’ He gave Nancy a wink and strolled out of the room, realising he’d enjoyed himself for the first time.
The fencing class two days later was more to his liking. ‘My cup of tea,’ he told Nancy. He had dressed in the full body tunic of thick undervest, britches over the waistline as extra protection and a jacket with a Chinese collar to protect the throat. A padded vest went on top. There was a special covering under the armpits where no bone protected the vulnerable part of the body.
He put on the mesh face-mask and picked up his epee, his duelling weapon. His opponent came into the room already masked. The fencing master ran through the moves, pointing out the area of the piste marked out on the floor. Moves outside its demarcation were illegal and the bout would be stopped. Randy listened carefully.
‘Take your positions, please. Salute. En garde.’ The two opponents saluted, extending the arm and weapon and then lowering it.
Randy felt as if his body had lightened, as if there was no weight on his feet, moving from immobility to a feeling of alertness and eagerness with a sense of excitement. He attacked, making a false move which was met with a swift riposte. Each time he attacked the defensive reply was smartly executed. Their weapons had the tips – point d’arrest – capped with rubber. The flash of polished metal in his hand felt like a natural extension of his arm. He kept his feet flat to maintain his stability and balance, his knees bent for support. It suddenly occurred to Randy that the dancing class could be useful for developing fencing skills. He tried to remember what he’d been shown about timing and distance and his mental attitude.
The fencing master called a halt. ‘Fine. Take a break. Randy, you’re a natural. But remember the mechanics of movement, combined with commitment and luck, will help you improve. Hope they’re planning some swashbuckling roles for you.’
‘Knowing this studio, they’ll put him in a Roman toga and give him a chariot and horses instead,’ said the other fencer.
‘Christ, I hope not,’ Randy laughed, then as his opponent pushed back his face mask, he gulped to see before him Sir Gilbert Barstow, one of Britain’s great actors. Along with Laurence Olivier, his reputation had been made in the theatre but he was now unashamedly making his fortune in Hollywood movies. The fencing master introduced them and Randy shook hands, still rather overcome.
The elegant older man studied him for a moment. ‘You have a lot of potential, dear boy. Romantic leads should be good fencers. You know Basil Rathbone and Cornell Wilde are really quite excellent. Well done.’
The fencing master nodded. ‘Anyone can learn the technique, and like all sports you need flexibility, strength and endurance. But you can’t teach reflex action and a feeling for distance. They’re natural talents. Speed is essential, but it’s very complex. Once you’ve got the moves, it becomes a mind thing.’ He added, ‘When I was in London I used to enjoy going a hit or two with Paul Gallico. He used to fly his plane over from New York.’
‘I hadn’t expected my first lesson to be with someone like yourself,’ said Randy to Sir Gilbert as they poured glasses of water from a jug nearby.
‘Like to keep my hand in. Thought I’d better be anonymous, not to make you nervous. So, I hear you’ve been out in the Pacific. Entertained the troops myself during the war. Went out with Coop, Gary Cooper, in the wake of the Bob Hope show. Rather primitive conditions, but the men enjoyed the show.’
‘The whole place is still rather primitive. But I’m very fond of it. Still have a bit of a spread out there,’ said Randy.
‘Which means?’ Sir Gilbert cocked an eyebrow.
‘A copra plantation. A mate is running it for me. I hope to give him a hand between films.’
The veteran slapped Randy on the shoulder. ‘Splendid idea. I suspect the films might keep you busier than you think. Shall we play on, maestro?’ He put his mask in place and lifted his epee.
Randy found the physical agility and the mental concentration required very stimulating. At the end of the class he was elated, and he thanked the master profusely.
‘You may come to my private fencing salle if you wish. I have a small studio under my house where I take some of the more dedicated students.’
‘I would like that. I really would. Thank you.’
They changed and Sir Gilbert emerged, flinging a cloak around his shoulders.
‘Follow me, dear boy, my driver awaits to take us to the fleshpots and pleasure domes.’ He swept out and Randy followed, somewhat bemused but ready for anything.
Los Angeles 1998
Janie tried not to think about her body. She tried to ignore the familiar monthly sensations of sore breasts, pangs in her ovaries, a headache and lethargy.
As she went about her daily life, she was conscious that she was holding her body carefully, alert to every twinge. Everywhere she went she saw pregnant women, women pushing prams and strollers as if they had proliferated since she had the defining moment with the gynaecologist.
All her life she’d believed she would get married, settle down and have children. It was a part of her, the expectancy of children. Yet here she was at thirty-seven and it hadn’t happened. And the fear that it would never happen to her wouldn’t go away. This wasn’t how she had seen her life working out when she’d left college and she’d written in the graduation yearbook – ‘I want children, four at least, a loving husband and a life surrounded by nature.’
She was not able to accept that this was how things were, to deny her yearning to be a mother. She was amazed at how her instinct to bear children had begun to outweigh the husband factor. She wanted to experience the joy of knowing there was a life inside her own, to wait for the first signs, to feel the first movements of tiny hands and feet pushing against her, to experience the bliss after pain, the moment her married friends had told her was so sublime.
Her frustration twisted into bitterness. Why wasn’t she able to share this mystery? So often conception happened accidentally, unwanted, to so many. Here she was filled with love that would make her baby grow up feeling special. She was mature, capable of making discerning decisions. Financially, she could give a child a materially stable life.
When the first cramps began, she drew up her knees and hoped and prayed it might be a minor symptom of early pregnancy and that it would pass. But then the staining began and her period was there, as it was every month, with no deviation from her normal pattern.
She thumped her fists against the wall, she rolled from side to side in her bed and she cried. Until, by dawn, she had calmed herself enough to sleep fitfully, rationalising that next time the artificial insemination of Peter’s sperm into her would work. They’d told her the odds. Even married friends had taken months to conceive.
But she had no husband beside her to comfort her. She felt the loss deeply.
Pat Jordan distracted her slightly with flying faxes to and from LA and Sydney about film clips from Randy’s hit movies. Could Janie line up a Big Name who had co-starred with Randy, or preferably one who’d been to Australia at some stage to make a film, to be included in the tribute to him to be shown at the opening of Foreshore Studios? And was Randy together enough to make a brief pertinent speech?
‘What’s she mean by pertinent?’ asked Randy. They were sitting on his terrace in the sun.
‘Pithy, significant, publicity gathering. I’m not sure. What would you like to say, Randy?’
‘That Australians are a bunch of wankers who chop down anyone who makes it outside Australia. And they treated me like shit when I went back in ’67,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Nah, just kidding. I’m over that. It did rankle for a bit. But if I’m honest I was coming from a high and mighty plane. Thought I’d go back as a major Hollywood star and tell the folks back home how to do it. Not good timing.’
