JILL DOESN’T COUNT

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 64, Issue 1, 12 October 1943, Page 6

JILL DOESN’T COUNT

| | | SERIAL STORY. |

A Romarjtic Story of Rival Sisters|

i ■ 1 | (Copyright). |

| (PHYLLIS HAMBLEDON). | * r/UAAilAAi!u«AiliAAili/\'/\ili/\VVilAAiliAAii t AVuIiAAJiA’AiiAAj!>N

CHAPTER XXXVIII

DEAR LITTLE PLAIN GIRL.

“Well, that’s that!” he said.* “We seem to be everybody’s little rays of sunshine to-day, Miss Ferrand. “It’s funny, when I read through that scenario, 1 didn’t think anything in the world could have been done with it. Just sheer treacle, it seemed to me. You’ve turned it ‘into a seller.” “You did your bit, too,” said Jill. “Nope,” said Harry. “I’m taking no credit for this. You put it over! The day will come when I boast to my grandchildren I once played opposite Jill Ferrand.”

“You’ve been pretty nice to play opposite to,” said Jill. “How’s your wife, by the way?” “She’s coming out of the nursinghome to-morrow,” said Harry. “And the baby’s grand! Most babies are so hideous, aren’t they? Well, give you my’word for it, this one is not!” Jill laughed outright. She liked Harry Gask, who was just as young and naive as the hero of Dear Little Plain Girl ought to be. They parted in Si friendly fashion from each other at the entrance to the dressing rooms. Jill passed on to hers, anxious to get the yellow from her face, and to remove the superfluous eyelashes, to reduce herself in fact, from a film actress to that, much more ordinary person, the wife of a general medical practitioner. But in her dressing room she found somebody awaiting her, a slip of a girl in rather pathetically shabby clothes. “Oh, Miss Ferrand,” she said in a shy voice, “I’m doubling for you tomorrow in the river scene. I’ve been given the clothes, but they sent me along to ask you how you were going to wear your hair?” “Miss Cowan will do it for me,” said Jill. “She’s somewhere round the studio now. She will do yours, too. We’re all going to meet at Freyne’s house, mearby Henley, to-morrow morning, you know. Miss Cowan will be there then.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Sally Bryant. Her hands twisted rather nervously. “It’s the first time I’ve ever doubled for anybody, though I've done a lot of crowd work, of course. I’ll have to look exactly as you do, won’t I?” “Well, you couldn’t have my face very well,” said Jill. “You’re pretty. Sure you’re a good swimmer?” she asked sharply. “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” said Sally, just a shade too quickly. “Well, there’s' a nasty current at the place where they’re shooting this scene,” said Jill. “I saw it last Sunday. I wish they’d let me do it myself, but they won’t. They keep their ‘leads’ wrapped up in cotton wool nowadays. Not like the time of the rough and tumble silent pictures. Get hold of Miss Cowan, child. Say I sent you. Hope the water’s not too cold tomorrow!”

“Worth it for five pounds,” said Sally. “I’ve often felt like that, too,” said Jill.

“You?” said Sally. “But I thought you were married.” “You can be poor if you’re married,” said Jill. “Oh, yes. but it’s worth it then,” said Sally. “Not being alone, I mean, and having a place of your own, I’ve always wanted a kitchen more than anything else in the world.”

Jill turned and looked at lier in surprise. “A kitchen! That’s not what most people want in their Christmas stockings.” “I don’t know about Christmas stockings,” said Sally. “I never had one. I’ve lived in rooms all my life. Mother was an actress on tour, you see. You know what theatrical lodgings are on tour. You probably know what some of those awful manufacturing towns are like, too. You just hate to think who might have slept in the bed before you did! But occasionally we’d get. somewhere not quite so bad, and if the landlady would have me in the kitchen why I’d be as pleased as Punch! There was one once, who let me make some scones.”

‘‘You funny kid,” said JilJ. “What did they taste like?”

“Not so bad. She- said I had a light hand for pastry.” “And you’re on the films instead?” said Jill.

“What, else could I do?” said Sally simply. She suddenly realised that she was taking up a good deal of Jill’s time. “Thank you so much, Miss Ferrand. Till to-morrow, then.” She slipped away. Jill’s dresser appeared, and the transformation scene was begun; Jill thought a little of the girl who had just left her. A nice child. Come to that, most of them were nice. Sbe had enjoyed this brief come-back to the world of the silver screen again. She had been exhilarated, amused, interested. It had been nice to be somebody, to hear: Yes, Miss Ferrand. No,- Miss Ferrand; to see the girls in the crowd, looking at her with unselfish envy, as one who had reached the- heights to which they all aspired. It was nicest of all to know that Dear Little Plain Girl was a success.

“Mr Trant rang up, Miss, to say that he can take you home when you’re ready,” said the dresser. “Ring him up and say that I’m ready now,” said Jill. She pushed her little hat over her head, and picked up her gloves. She left the dressing room, as perhaps no other girls who had used it, had ever left it, with only a. single gance in the mirror. But Malcolm, awaiting her in the blue car, looked at her with approval. During these last three weeks since

Oliver had gone to, Biarritz, and she had come to the studio, she had developed. Unknown to herself, stardom suited her amazingly. She had been obliged to dress better, to buy clothes of her own, instead of wearing Viva’s discarded finery. And she had chosen them with taste. She had personality now, and she carried herself beautifully. “Pleased with us all, Malcolm?” she asked now, as the car bore them through the studio gates. “You know 1 am.”

“I’m so glad. You’ve been rather like a fairy godmother you know.” That isn’t the part in the story of Cenderella that I’ve wanted to play, thought Malcolm, but he said nothing. “Debts paid,” continued Jill cheerfully. “New clothes and new lots of things! A thousand pounds can make a lot of difference to anybody.” “Told Oliver what you’ve, been doing yet?” asked Malcolm. “No, but I shall have to, before the picture is released, of course. But I’ll choose my own moment. It’s a pity that Oliver hates the films so badly.” “I understand that point of view. The wrong sort of picture can make life seem pretty artificial and meretricious. When you’re offered another contract Jill, will you take it?” “That will be for Oliver to say,” said Jill.

“Life still begins and ends for you with Oliver, doesn’t it?” said Malcolm rather roughly. “I’m afraid it does,” said Jill, “Heard from him lately?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes, yesterday—just a postcard,” said having too good a time to write. But he says lie’s feeling fine. He’ll be back again in ten days or so. I told him not to hurry. Dr. Wilson is doing splendidly. He’s kind and clever and conscientious, all the things that odious Dr. Frith was not.”

“Seen Viva lately?” asked Malcolm. “We’re not on the most friendly of terms,” answered Jill, “She has finished her new picture. She’s in Paris, I believe/ Greer’s in Paris, anyhow.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. He had seen Greer in Piccadilly only that morning. And he’d heard rumours . . . Better nor tell Jill anything. She was happy at present, brow serene and • mouth smiling. He had not given up hope of winning her, but he would not lift a finger to do so, if to • win her, meant to hurt her deliberately. All the same, if there’s trouble in store for her, I’ll be somewhere round, he thought. (To be Continued). The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.