Lady IN WAITING

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 470, 3 June 1932, Page 12

Lady IN WAITING

By

A Story of the SILVER SCREEN

EDGAR JEPSON.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. “ Hogben has told me of your disgraceful benaviour with Lord Leigham on the first floor landing, Miss Warren. Here is your salary up to date, and another month's in lieu of notice—” Thai: was all because young LORD LEIGHAM had seen SARAH WARREN in a particularly pretty frock which she had made. It was not the kind of frock that a governess would wear for her duties. Consequently, Lord Leigham had never before appreciated how very alluring was that demure Sarah whom his austere mother had engaged to train his juvenile cousin. Always decidedly susceptible to feminine charm. Lord Leigham had crept stealthily behind Sarah, and, smothering her squeal of fright and protest, had kissed her vehemently. That was why SaraJi was suddenly turned out without reference, into the cold, hard ■world from which the close care of her mother had protected her before she came to Leigham House. Sarah examines her financial position and finds that she has nearly £3O. It is not as much as she had decided to acquire Before launching on her secret ambition, which is to make a beginning in film work. Nevertheless, she decides that it must suffice. Sarah has always been popular with other members of the staff at Leigham House, and. before leaving, she has no difficulty in arranging with the butler to continue to use the address and to have her letters kept for her or forwarded. She rents a modest room in a cheap, respectable quarter. A visit to a dress agency and some stern bargaining with the proprietress enables her to exercise her extraordinary good taste in dress without too great a dissipation of her savings. Meantime, the impetuous Lord Leigham, afflicted by a sense of remorse, makes up his mind to send a letter to Sarah. CHAPTER VI. The Silver Screen. The floor did not win Sarah's approval at sight, and when she moved across it she liked it even less than she had liked the look of it; it was hard upon her shoes. She perceived with, a sigh, that they must be sacrificed. Mr. Salaman stood in the middle of the floor and, lisping, drilled them; he arranged the couples in the order he fancied. He changed one or two of the partners, to get them better matched;- he changed their orders again. He did not forget the people sitting on the sofas; lie instructed them in their attitudes and gestures and movements. At the end of half an hour things were beginning to go as he wanted, and Sarah was beginning to grow tired of the tune. She found it a blessing that her partner was a good dancer; he did not add to the wear of her shoes by treading on them. Now and again he murmured a word or two disparaging Mr. Salaman’s capacity. She was disappointed to observe that the ballroom was only a background to the real scene. On the right of it was a wide, arched opening, on the other

side of which was the richly furnished anteroom in which the stars were to play their parts. The camera was on the other side of that so that she would not be nearly as much in view of the audience as she would have liked. She told herself that beginners must not be choosers, but she kept her face as much towards the camera as her neck would let her. Two or three of the other girls, she saw, were doing the same. Then Mr. Salaman put in a word. He said: “Don’t look at the camera, ladith! You look like a lot of tliilly geeth thcrewing their headth off to look at the thame dog. Remember you’re in a ballroom where there ith’nt any camera. Don’t do it!’* After that at intervals he called out: ‘‘Don’t look at the camera! Look at your partnertli!” At first Sarah’s partner, like herself, was too busy learning what Mr. Salaman wanted him to do, to talk. But when presently he had learnt what was wanted he said: “You haven’t done much of this.” “How do you know ?” “From the way you kept screwing your face round at the camera. Beginners do.” “You might have told me.” “Tlialaman’s job. He has. I haven’t seen you here before. Who gave you this job?” “Mr. Bromby.” “A good man, Bromby. But Benskin and Posnet are just as good, and I know Benskin. Very useful it is, for crowdwork goes very much by favour. Well, we’ve a long day’s work before us, and we may as well get acquainted. My name’s Chudleigli.” She looked more closely at his face and thought it a nice face, frank and intelligent, and he knew Benskin. “Mine’s Warren,” she said. “How do you spell the ‘ley’ in Chudley?” “L-e-i-g-h.” “Oh, Chudleigli,” she said thoughtfully. “Why not?” “Oh, no reason. Only I don’t find people with ‘leigh’ in their names very lucky to know, and I’ve known two.” “What did they do to you?” “Nothing very much. But they aren’t,” she said and gave him the benefit ©f her eyes and smile. He knew Benskin. Why should not she know Benskin ? “It sounds odd. You must be perfectly ripping without that make-up oil.” “I am,” she said frankly and smiled again. “But one of them was a woman/’ “It would be. It isn’t only that you’ve got a pretty face. But it’s drawable. I’m a painter and that’s liow I look at faces.” “Oh, you’re an artist?” she said, impressed." “You don’t live by film-work then ?” “Rather not! You can’t live by filmw r ork, you know—not crowd-work anyhow. There isn’t enough to be got. But it does help to keep one going while one gets on with one’s real work.” There was an interruption; Mr. Salaman emptied the ballroom; Bardsley Minchin, the chief producer, and the principals came into the ante-room on the other side of the arched, opening. The crowd stood or sat about gossiping or knitting, or both. Sarah went as near the ante-room as she dared to watch the principals at work. Chudleigh went with her. She was not long learning that she was taking part in a drama of love and passion, the old, old, and again old, old story of a true heart in the thick, square body of a hundred per cent. Hel man, contending with false hearts in ! slimmer and more rounded forms. The true heart, apparently still rather soggy after a day’s work at the business which made him so neglectful of his wife was having his suspicions awakened, with a club, and they would have been wide awake and humming much ; sooner had the lady, the famous star, Winnie Thickthorn, known lier words. 1 Sarah patiently watched her learn them, with simultaneous prompting from i the true heart, the false deceiver, Bards-

ley Minchin, her manager, and an interested gentleman, performing apparently the function of a male nurse, and then go through the scene, business and words again and again. Sarah watched everything with the keenest intentness; how they stood, how they moved, how they spoke, their gestures. At the cud of an hour she was sure that she could act any of the parts as well as the person taking it. When they paused to rest she betook herself to Mrs. Thwaites and chatted pleasantly with her. Chudleigli went with her, and chatted too. At lunch time she went to the canteen —Chudleigli went with her—and lunched on two thick beef sandwiches, of a homely cut, and a large cup”of coffee. Chudleigli began to talk about his art. Sarah listened to him carefully; she liked to learn things. He was delighted to find in this lovely creature so earnest a listener; she was interested and surprised to learn how important art ivas, the most important thing in a man’s life. She made a note of it. Chudleigli was still telling her about it at 4.15 when, Winnie Thickthorn, having learnt her words, they began to rehearse the scene with principals and band. At 4.3 the artistic conscience of Bardsley Minchin —he often admitted frankly that he was a temperamental genius—suddenly insisted that a star with a tendency to falseheartedness must, in a ballroom, have a fan. Mr. Salaman and Winnie Thickthorn’s maid motored to London to fetch it, Mr. Salaman to buy it, the maid to see that it matched the star’s frock. Bardsley Minchin, who bore about with him a good deal of moustache, was meticulous in such details; but since fans arc not in as common use in the polite world as they were many years ago, they were some time in fetching it. The rehearsal broke up, and they waited. At 5 p.m. Sarah stayed her firm appetite with a slab of cake and a large cup of tea, and Chudleigli stayed his at the same time, telling her more about art. Then Mr. Thwaites, the casting manager, came to choose the hundred per cent heman’s guests at a climatic dinner party, destined to produce a black Wednesday on the Stock Exchange, which was to be filmed next, and his wife presented Sarah to him. He chose her to be one

of the guests. He also chose Chudleigli to be another.

Sarah perceived clearly that she was in luck. When Mr. Thwaites had made his choice and came back to them, she congratulated him with pretty and most awed admiration on his quickness and decision. Her mother had told her that men like to have their manly qualities appreciated. It became plain that Mr. Thwaites did. At G. 15 Mr. Salaman and the girl returned with the fan, and the rehearsing with principals and band began again. The search for the fan had given Winne Thickthorn time to forget many of her wards, and since they had to be restored to her, the rehearsal did not go as quickly as it might. It was her face and not the grey matter behind the top of it that had won her her position on the silver screen, so that it was 8 o’clock before the set was sealed up, proof against outside sounds, and the camerr was recording the day’s work. It war

past 10 before that work was recorded and Sarah reckoned that when she had deducted her fares and the cost of her meals she was 12/ to the good on the 14-hour day. But then she had learnt things. She and Mrs. Thwaites had finished dressing when Mrs. Thwaites said wistfully, “I do like that jumper.” “I should like to knit you one; you’ve been so kind and helpful,” said Sarah. “But they take a long time, you know, and I’m afraid, now, that there isn’t enough film work going to make it worth my while to stick to it. I’m thinking I shall have to be looking for another kind of job, though, of course, with all these long waits, doing nothing, I could knit dozens of jumpers.” Mrs. Thwaites looked at the jumper with longing eyes and hesitated; then she said: “Look here, my dear, don’t you be in a hurry to give up film work. You’ve got as good a face for it as ever I saw. I’ll speak to Thwaites about you, and I think I can promise you pretty regular work here —whenever there is any crowd-work going, if you’ll let me have your address.” “That is nice of you,” said Sarah. “Leigham House, Berkeley Square, will find me.” Mrs. Thwaites looked impressed; she said, “All right, my dear. You get the wool; I’ll do the rest. And, of course, I pay for the wool.” Sarah came out of the dressing-room, pleased to have followed her mother’s injunction. Never to miss the chance of making a friend. She found Chudleigli waiting for her. She was strong, for all her delicate slimness, but she had had a long day; she was pleased to have someone to carry her suitcase. “You! The Girl in the Red Frock” Next morning she bought in Ivnightsbridgo the wool to start the jumper and found Mrs. Thwaites at the door of the studios at a few minutes to nine. Since there would be close-ups of the dinner party, Mr. Sanderson, the make-up man of the studio, stout and cheerful, with a twinkling eye, made up their faces. “A pity to cover it up, ain’t it?” he said to Sarah, smiling at her in the “It will always uncover all light.” “I never covered up a prettier. It’s worth taking extra pains with, it is.” “It’s very nice of you to say so,” said Sarah, smiling back at him in a ravishing fashion. “But how many girls have you said that to?” “Never a one—honour bright.” “I’ve never heard him say it to any ono else, and I’ve seen him make up a good few,” said Mrs. Thwaites. “I’ve never had such good reasons,” ho protested and winked gallantly at Sarah in the mirror. “Mostly I improve them; but not this time.” “Then it’s a real compliment,” said Sarah,. and she gave him another ravishing smile. She was rewarded; he took uncommon pains with her face, and she watched the process with the keenest eyes. The result was worth his pains; her face, compared with that of the day before, was a painting against a daub. Also she had learnt enough to get it, in the future, more like a painting herself. They were summoned to the set, a dining room on the baronial scale. Both Bardsley Mi.nehin and Mr. Salaman were there; they had just arranged it to their liking. The walls were panelled; portraits of ancestors, which could not have been those of the hundred per cent he-man, since he had asserted earlier that he had made himself stags’ heads, trophies of arms, mirrors, and small bunches of boomerangs from Ausi tralia, adorned nearly every scrap of i them. Bardsley Minchin was meticulous about such details and he was

lavish of them. A glass chandelier of 1800 hung from the ceiling. On the broad dining table was a. white tablecloth; on it were coffee cups and liqueur glasses and silver cigarette boxes and cigar boxes, all empty. Dinner waa The white tablecloth irked Sarah. Mr. Salaman arranged the guests; Bardsley Minehin rearranged them. Most of the characters in the film were among them. Both the producers placed Sarah in a position in which the camera would do her full justice. They viewed the table from many angles before they were satisfied. Then Bardsley Mincliin folded his arms and Mr. Salaman said: ‘‘Now then; dinner’th over and you’re all a bit lit-up. You’re all liilariouth —all talkin’ an’ laughin’ at the thame time a bit boothily. Not too boothily, ’cause you’re ladith and gen’lemen, you know. An’ don’t thit up too thraight. Loll a little.” They worked at this for half an hour —Sarah was still troubled by the tablecloth —slowly developing Mr. Salaman’s conception of ladies and gentlemen behaving not to boozily, but just boozily enough. Chudleigh had to be toned down; ho was getting too much of the true Chelsea realism into a ref necl atmosphere. Others had to be toned up. Suddenly Bardsley Minehin struck himself on the chest with his fist, a postman’s double knock. He admitted frankly, often without being questioned that as a temperamental genius he was frequently swept by brain storms. When one of them so swept him, he marked it, for all to see, in that fashion. “I see it!” lie said in the clarion voice of genius. “You! The girl in the red frock! You’re not the type to be at home in such an atmosphere.” Sarah perceived that he was addressing her, and her heart sang; he was going to take her out of the banquet. But lie added: “You must be shocked, disgusted, horrified. You must draw yourself up and shrink. Like this. Watch me—carefully—carefully.” He drew himself up and making a horrible face, shrank. Sarah recovered her wits she, also registering repulsion, shrank. “That’s it! That’s it! You’re getting it,” he. said. But wait! You must have something ro shrink from. A satyr! Yes, yes; a satyr! Mr. Sterling, sit by her. What’s your name, miss?” “Warren.” i “Sit by Miss Warren and put your arm round her in a leering way.” Mr. Sterling, made up to look like a stout, dissipated friend of the false deceiver, changed places with the man on Sarah’s right and put his arm round her in the manner suggested; Sarah registered shock and repulsion and shrank. In ten minutes they had it to Bardsley Minchin’s liking. “That’s better,” he said, with quiet pride; “another touch of realism —the human note.” (To be continued daily.) . i