15
Tinseltown,
NSW
Right, he’s offered me mega-megabucks plus
and a free return trip to Queensland, and I’m doing it. Uncle Jerry doesn’t
mind, he reckons it’ll be good for Daniel to have to stand on his own two feet
for a couple of months, and if he fucks it up, well, I’ll still be around,
won’t I, it won’t be as if I’ve gone off to Hollywood. True, but what he
doesn’t realise is that Daniel is the type of tiny pointy-headed, make that
dick-headed nerd that doesn’t admit it to his bosses when he’s fucked it up,
just covers it up madly, did you ever see that film about that type that sent
that Pommy bank bust? The snowball effect, yeah. Fortunately Deirdre and Betty
and all the rest of the girls won’t hesitate to complain very loudly to Uncle
Jerry if anything goes wrong with the accounts system, so with a bit of luck
Grant & Marshall won't go bust in the next two months.
Uncle Jerry reminded me about my tax
bracket, so after a certain amount of fruitless discussion with Double Dee
Productions’ Assistant to the Executive Director and his minion, even thicker
then he is, I took Rosie’s advice and rung this guy Lucas Roberts at the London
Head Office. He actually knew what I was talking about and talked sense back to
me. Plus and was really interested in what I do for Uncle Jerry and he’s gonna
send someone out to look at our accounts system because theirs is a pig to use,
his expression, and is always going wrong. So the upshot was they’ll pay me
half this financial year and half the next. So up the ATO.
Of course Rupy was right and excruciating
is what it is but so what, I just think of the money and let the screaming go
on around me. Besides, it isn’t usually me the Grate Director is screaming at,
I’m too insignificant to cop the screaming, it’s the unfortunate actors and
cameramen and lighting-men. (Not -persons, they are all men.) Or quite often
the Production Designer, this thin-faced guy called Bernie Anderson, he’s
really nice, or the Dialogue Writer, an up-himself Pommy git called Harry
Strachan that thinks it’s funny to put on an Aussie accent and call people
mate. Not people like the blokes that shift the scenery and heavy props,
though: it has now dawned that they don’t notice it because it’s their normal
vernacular. So up his.
None of it’s making sense but Rosie and
Rupy both warned me, actually Yvonne did, too, that they never shoot stuff in
sequence. And even when it is in sequence my bet is it won’t make sense and
actually Rosie, Rupy and Yvonne have all agreed with that, yes sir, in spades. Quite
a lot of the actors are here, like, Rupy of course, he plays Commander, that’s
a bit like Commander Riker in Star Trek The Next Gen., like, the First
Officer, geddit? Same as his rôle in the series only this time round he doesn’t
get the girl. The Grate D.D. isn’t making him overtly gay, though, because
something about he doesn’t want that sort of Fifties Angst to creep in? Well,
don’t look at me, it was something like that. So Rupy’s playing it just
like he does in the series and so far hasn’t been screamed at more than
average, so we’ve concluded this is what is wanted.
Michael Manfred is repeating his rôle as
Captain Harding (“Daddy Captain” according to the Daughter, yuck, spew!). Some
of us thought D.D. might’ve cast a much more famous actor that’s specialised in
doing smooth English types in Hollywood movies for the last forty years, so
much so that he’s forgotten what a real Englishman looks and sounds like, but
no, surprisingly enough. Sure, old Michael’s tremendously popular with what
Rosie and Rupy call “the twinset set” or “the granny set” or “the OAP’s” or
“the matinée set” or “the flowery frocks” or any permutation or combination
thereof. “Grannies in twinsets”, quite often, or, given Rupy’s long years of
drawing-room comedy in London, “grannies in raincoats and twinsets”. Yeah. What
I was gonna say is, the American viewing public’s never heard of Michael
Manfred, except the minute portion of nayce ones that are glued breathlessly to
the TV series drooling over the inordinate amount of English stately homes
that’ve crept into it since, just as a pure coincidence, Brian Hendricks of
Henny Penny Productions went into partnership with some Yank TV channel. Rosie
reckon it’s the one that co-produced those Morse things: the later ones, that
were full of English stately—Oh, ya goddit, huh? Yeah. Anyway, old Michael’s
thrilled to be in it and thrilled to be in Oz, he’s never been further away
from England than a day trip to Boulogne, before.
The younger actors that play the rest of
the officers are on deck, too, no pun intended. They’re all English, much to
the chagrin, or so it’s said, of the younger Aussie dramatic contingent—most of
whom, judging by the home-made crap you see on the box, can’t act, can’t do an
English accent, and wouldn’t have the sense to shave the chin and let the
shaven head grow out for an audition for a film about the Fifties—like that. So
up theirs. Needless to say most of the English types are vain little dreeps.
Well, Darryn Hinds sure is, he’s repeating his rôle as Lieutenant Welwich, it’s
the first film he’s been in and boy has it gone to his head. It is a very
good-looking head, true. Dark hair and eyes, oval face, rather pouty mouth sort
of thing—if you never noticed nothing like it in the series don’t fret, he
usually doesn’t get many lines. After hearing Derry Dawlish saying lightly
“Pretty boy, isn’t he?” a couple of times I got the point. Not that he’s a
pretty-boy as in old-fashioned for gay—though I’m not saying D.D. wouldn’t be
capable of using the term. No, the phrase indicates (a) he’s photogenic and
will be appropriately decorative on screen at the point where the great man’s
concept calls for decorative and (b) he will never be a great actor or even a
film star. Which even I can see, he’s got no—well, call it star quality or
charisma or what, I dunno what it is, but it’s the sort of thing that means you
light up the screen and the audience can't take their eyes off you, and I gotta
admit Rosie’s got it and so has Adam McIntyre, whew, boy, has he got it! And
Euan Keel, only he isn’t here yet.
Adam McIntyre is here: since it was him,
D.D. scheduled his scenes to fit in with his holiday plans: he’s just been home
to New Zealand for a bit. (He is a New Zealander, ignore what the Poms claim
about owning him, he only grew up in Blighty, and his parents have now retired
back home.) Unfortunately it looks like I’m not gonna get to meet his
wife—Georgy Harris, of course—cos her and their little kids are still over there,
staying with the grandparents. ’Member how good she was as Titania in that awful
Midsummer Night’s Dream D.D. starred them both in a few years back? Oh,
well, I never really thought that being Rosie’s stand-in was gonna lead to
meeting all the Big Stars, and I guess I oughta be content, yes, Joslynne, with
meeting Adam McIntyre, isn’t he gorge-ous, unquote.
Well, yeah, he is gorgeous, and if he’s
taken Joslynne’s mind off that dickhead of an accountant she was mixed up with
until quite recently, I guess we all oughta be grateful, but Jesus, is he a
wimp or is he a wimp! Yeah, Rosie, ya did warn me. Yeah, Rupy, Rosie did warn
me—All right! I was taken in by that stupid almost-Bond cops and robbers
thing he made yonks back and NOW I BELIEVE YA!
Actually he’s very nice, well, he’s
certainly been very nice to me, and very nice to Joslynne, even if the blinding
smiles she gets are of the don’t-really-see-ya variety. D.D. hates hangers-on
on set, but he’s scared stiff Rosie’ll chuck the whole thing in if he sends Joslynne
packing, so he’s putting up with her. She doesn’t come every day, she does have
housework clients that kick up if she doesn’t turn up at least fifty percent of
the time she’s supposed to.
So first thing this morning we had a lot of
the standing-around-endlessly-in-full-costume-on-mock-ups-of-the-Royal-Navy crap.
I got screamed at individually because I sat down on the studio floor when it
looked like the screaming was gonna go on for several more hours. The Grate
Director doesn’t want me for the rest of the day but this arvo I gotta go and
try on some frocks in the Wardrobe Department so gee, I’ll just sit down
quietly in this corner and watch, ’cos actually, watching D.D. scream at Adam
McIntyre hasn’t palled yet. D.D.’s only rehearsing the main parts as yet, but
he’s got this horrendous amended shooting-schedule out already—thousands of
slaves have been working overtime in the background, right—so the stars have
been told they better get it right. And been reminded that hiring the studios
costs money, yes.
So the Big Star goes: “Let me help you,
Rosie.”
And
my cousin goes very weakly: “Um, thanks, Adam.” Gee, being helped out of her
wheelchair by Adam McIntyre in person can’t of palled yet.
He helps her over to her appointed pozzie, hop,
hop, help, grab!—Gasp!—“Sorry, Adam!” (Cringe! Thank God
it was her done that and not me!) Gee, she gets the lovely smile right into the
eyes that turned hundreds of thousands of women to jelly in the almost-Bond
thing. And he says: “Comfy?”
“Yes, thanks, Adam,” she croaks weakly.
–All right, go on, what piece of sophisticated repartee would you of
come out with?
McIntyre smooths her skirt over the plaster
and smiles again. “Ready, aye, ready.” So I choke and a couple of misguided hangers-on
of D.D.’s go into spluttering fits.
“Quiet on SET!” bellows D.D. Gee, even
though he’s not filming you could hear a pin drop on set. “All right, Adam:
from the top.”
So it goes like this:
Vyvyan Carteret-Brown (McIntyre’s
part: poncy and tall City type that’s also
Naval
Reserve—Dawlish wasn’t gonna miss a chance to get A. McI. into a spiffy
uniform)
and CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER discovered seated in ship’s saloon.
What about a wee drinkie-poo, Janey? Pink gin?
CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
(giggling)
At this hour, Vyvvy? The sun isn’t over the yardarm,
yet! Look—
(giggles)
—that’s the
yardarm, out there!
(waves at
porthole, collapses in giggles.)
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(loudly)
Giggles, Rosie! Not dirty sniggers! From the top!
Vyvyan Carteret-Brown
What about a wee drinkie-poo, Janey? Pink gin?
CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
(giggling)
At this hour, Vyvvy? The sun isn’t over the—
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(interrupting)
Cut! Fred, I want Camera One to dolly up and get
the sunlight reflecting off the water onto her hair.
FRED, AS HIMSELF
(very weakly)
Through the porthole, Derry?
D.D., AS HIMSELF
Yes, through the porthole, man!
FRED, AS HIMSELF
Derry, we’ll need a whole set of reflectors, and to
create the ripple effect—
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(shouting)
Do it!
FRED, AS HIMSELF
(glumly)
All right, it’s your funeral.
D.D., AS HIMSELF
Get on with it!
(nothing; shouting)
Adam, wake up! From the top!
Vyvyan Carteret-Brown
What about a wee drinkie-poo, Janey? Pink gin?
Yes, well. According to Rupy that’s the level
of dialogue that has been ordained for the thing by, not necessarily in this
order, both Varley Knollys and Derry Dawlish. Varley Knollys will be credited
as “Written by”—that’s more up-market, according to Rupy, than “Script by” or
just “Script”—but Harry Strachan actually writes most of it, and he does it
like that because he knows what side his bread’s buttered on. Rupy did tell me
that, too, but actually, I’d worked it out for myself.
Aeons
later John arrives, looking his usual calm self. “How did it go, darling?”
“Same as usual,” Rosie replies simply.
Yeah, it was that, all right. Unfortunate grabs at Adam McIntyre’s gorgeous person
excepted. “Did you go to the museum?”
He did, and it was interesting. At least he
had the sense not to let Aunty May go with him, they’d of spent half the
morning looking for the toilets. He makes sure we’ve had lunch, greets with
great pleasure the news that Adam’s been looking after Rosie, thanks the said
Adam nicely, and asks if it’s Wardrobe now.
“Yeah, and don’t laugh,” she warns grimly.
He won’t laugh. So he wheels her off. I
coulda done that, but actually, unlike Joslynne, Wendalyn and Yvonne, I do
understand that the bloke might like to push his own wife when she’s stuck in a
wheelchair. –She couldn’t manage the fucking crutches the hospital gave her and
Dawlish has now decreed that she isn’t to try again on pain of death—whose, not
all that clear, because he does actually want her in the show. He’s terrified
she’ll bust another leg, or her back, or— Oh, ya goddit yonks back, eh? Good on
ya.
Gee, the heroic man doesn’t laugh, not even
when they make Rosie practise feeling in the cherry-embroidered pocket
of the full-skirted primrose princess-length effort. There’s a narrow strip of
matching embroidered braid round the skirt, ya wanted to know that. She
was gonna wear high-heeled cherry-red sandals with it, hah, hah. So they’ve got
a pair for me instead. Gasp! Totter, totter! Yeah, I am gonna have to practise
that—right.
“What is Rosie supposed to be feeling for?”
John asks seriously. Very pleased, they explain. Yes, well, in that case,
mightn’t it be better to try the gesture with the prop? They can’t do that,
John, it isn’t allowed out of the Props Department until the last minute! He
picks up her purse. “May I, darling?” (I kid you not.)
So she groans: “Yeah, yeah, go on.”
He extracts her little pink beaded change
purse: is this about the same size? They think it is, yes! –Very pleased. “Go
on, Rosie,” he says: “try it.”
So she puts the little purse in her pocket
and feels for it. Huge sighs of relief all round and they all beam at
John. Well, they have made four versions of this frock, poor souls. The first
one was too yellow, D.D. had a screaming fit. The second one—forget. No, hang
on, wrinkles over the bust. The third one had the pocket positioned wrong and
into the bargain too small, the girl can’t FEEL IN IT, YOU PACK OF CRETINS! Like
that.
Look, the prop is a weeny change purse in
the shape of a sailor’s hat, all right? The zip goes round the brim, NOW are ya
satisfied? Jesus!
Next. Pale blue, full-skirted
princess-length, scattered with little bunches of pink roses, piped and cuffed
within an inch of its life. Ye gods. John notices that that’s very like the
lovely dress you wore to go boating in the series, Rosie! To which she replies
that actually that one was pink with blue flowers, but ya right in essence,
John. He still doesn’t laugh, I tell ya, the man is a saint!
Next.
One of the evening dresses. Yeah, she concedes, maybe she did put on a bit of
weight in hospital. (Cringe.) Poke, prod, mutter… Take it off. Yeah, she’ll
have to. What? Not the weight, the dress! She takes it off. Hannah operates on
the seams, rip, tug! Cripes.
So I go: “Is that the Edith Head design?”
Yes, why? Aw—nothing. Come to think of it, she very likely did design
everything with adjustable side-seams in case the great stars of the Fifties put
on weight eating chocs. Get back into it, Rosie—oops, careful! Gasp,
grab! John puts an iron hand under her elbow, frowning. Gee, it fits, good on
ya, Hannah.
Next. Green. They told Derry and
Bernie that was a mistake! Panic mixes with the triumph, however, and someone
scoots off to find Bernie Anderson. Meanwhile John’s helped Rosie to sit down
again and draped the dressing-gown round her shoulders and asks kindly if
anyone would like coffee. They would, only Derry’d kill them if he caught
anyone drinking or eating near the Clothes, John. He sees.
Bernie surfaces, together with, Janine, the
Costume Designer, hul-lo! Now we’re in the shit! He’s really easy-going.
She isn’t. Gee, she told Bernie that green was all wrong for Lily Rose!
“Yes,” he says: “I’m afraid the only tack with
Derry is to give him his head until even he can’t deny his own demonstrated
fatuity.”
Gee, John’s grinning like anything.
Actually, so’s the whole of Wardrobe. Actually, so am I.
“Get her into it, dears,” says Bernie, “and
I’ll get Derry.”
Cringe, tremble…
Phew, that wasn’t so bad, of course he blew
up and of course he started shouting about pink lights and filters and GET WILL
IN HERE! Will’s the Chief Lighting Technician, a very techo guy, and he came
and flattened the Grate Director utterly.
So
what is she gonna wear in this crucial scene with all the green in it?
“White,” says John unexpectedly and they
all jump ten feet. “White,” he repeats, smiling. “Isn’t it supposed to be
Singapore in the Fifties? Mother’s albums are full of shots of her in white when
she was out there.”
“What?” screams D.D. “Your mother
was actually in Singapore in the FIFTIES?”
“Yes. Both my parents: Father was posted
there.”
“Tell me he was in the Navy, too,” he whispers,
trembling.
“Yes, of course,” says John, mildly
surprised.
“I WILL KILL YOU, LILY ROSE!” he bellows..
“I told him ya Father was a grocer,” she
admits. “You know: like Maggie Thatcher.”
Even John’s stunned at this one. “What?” he
croaks.
“John, he’d of descended on your parents
and demanded their family albums, it would of been dreadful! Well, did you like
it that time he descended on us at the cottage? –No. And what if your Mother
had given in and let him have them? We’d never of got them back, and that would
of been Baby Bunting’s heritage down the drain!”
D.D.’s breathing heavily. John just says
smoothly: “Well done, that grocer’s daughter-in-law.” Choke! Fortunately
no-one’s bothering to notice me.
“We had plenty of snaps,” Bernie Anderson
says mildly.
“Bernie, LOOK at him!” shouts Dawlish, ooh,
the bits of his face not mercifully hidden by the beard are all puce.
Bernie looks mildly at John.
“He’s got ‘upper-class Navy family’ written
all over him! When I think of what must be in those albums—!”
“You’re that one that believed his dad was a
grocer. Can we get back to our muttons and decide whether we want Rosie in
white for this scene?”
Eventually the Grate Director decides it
might work. Add some white flowers, Bernie. “And make sure that girl can WALK
in those bloody shoes!” Oops, I wasn’t as unnoticed as I thought I was.
Later. Bernie resurfaces to get John to
confirm that his mother would never have worn a playsuit consisting of a narrow
gathered skirt, unbuttoning at the front to reveal a pair of tailored shorts,
with a halter top and matching headscarf. He doesn’t even blink, he just
confirms smoothly: “Never, I’m afraid.”
“Have a medal, that grocer’s son,” says
Rosie as the door closes after the satisfied Bernie.
“Thanks,” he says, grinning.
… Next day. Scrap that. Daughter’s just
been playing tennis, she’s gonna wear a little pleated tennis skirt,
yeah, yeah. Whatever. Hey, wonder if D.D.’s forgotten it won’t be hers, it’ll
be my legs that glimmer through all this green shade of his as Daughter
sneaks off in her tennis gear to this clandestine meeting of hers? Incidentally,
Bernie pronounced it “clan-dess-tin,” accent on the “dess”, but D.D. and
Hannah both pronounced it “clan-dust-tyne”, accent on the “clan”, like
right up until John pronounced it “clan-dess-tin,” at which point D.D.
switched to that. Ya not surprised? Well, it brightened up my day.
Day after. Filming.
What about a wee
drinkie-poo, Janey? Pink gin?
CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
(giggling)
At this hour,
Vyvvy? The sun isn’t over the yardarm,
yet! Look—
(giggles)
—that’s the
yardarm, out there!
(waves at
porthole, collapses in giggles.)
Camera One dollies up—
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(shouting)
Cut! Where the fuck
are those ripples?
And so it goes on. Rosie’s in the pale
yellow thing with the cherry trim for this scene. McIntyre’s in his Wavy-Navy
uniform (winter version: dark navy with gold cuff thingos, not white, though he
has got a white one, Hannah’s informed me). I dunno why—the script certainly
hasn’t explained it and I haven’t bothered to ask. I think the ship’s at
Gibraltar, which would make this a scene very early in the piece, but I
wouldn’t swear to it.
Rupy
comes and sits down beside me with a sigh. “I knew those ripples’d be wrong.”
“Yeah. Want half a yoghurt muesli bar?”
“Ta ever so, Dot, dear!”
We munch…
“Get that girl over here! Where the Hell is
she? DOT!”
Shit, is that me? Scurry, pant! “Yeah?”
Pant, pant.
“Were you watching?” he goes evilly.
“Um, no, Derry, I got bore—”
“I told you to OBSERVE!”
Oh. Didja? Right, mm. I get muddled, cos
see, you’re either bellowing at me to OBSERVE or bellowing at me to GET OFF THE
SET, when you’re not ignoring me completely. (Don’t say any of it, just try to
look very observing.)
“The script calls,” he says in an evil
tone—why waste it on me, mate, I haven’t been honoured with a copy of ya
blessed script, or the thingos for the daily shooting, um, sides?—my virus scanner’s
excised that—“for Lily Rose”—right, forgetting to call her Rosie again—“to
stroll over to the porthole and LOOK OUT DREAMILY!”
“Right: ripples reflecting off the face,
ya’ll do that in close—”
“SHUT UP!”
All right, I will.
“Get over here!”
I am!
“Um, here?”
“NO! THERE!”
All right, there. “This right?”
“Sit DOWN, Goddammit!” he screams.
“Here, Dot,” says Adam McIntyre, smiling
nicely and patting the sofa right next to him. Cripes, me? Limply I
subside onto the sofa.
“Take her hand! ADAM! Take her—” Shit, he’s
taken my hand, why didn’t I wipe it down the side of me pale yellow
cherry-trimmed frock before I sat down? –Me and Rosie are not, D.D.’s
assumptions to the contrary, exactly the same size, as Wardrobe has now discovered.
Probably just as well, what if I was wearing yer actual Lily Rose frock and
spilt something down it? Uh, crumbs of yoghurt muesli bar, for instance.
(Brush, brush.)
“Eh? Oh, sorry, Angela.” She’s the
continuity girl. So-called: forty if a day. She fiddles around arranging the
skirt of the frock and making me turn my head and look up at Adam McIntyre.
That’s a hardship. No, well, I’d rather I hadn’t gone red as a tomato, what a
nana. Yes, I am slathered in make-up to match Rosie’s, but I’m bloody sure I’m
glowing through it, what a total nana!
“Ripples! Ripples! WILL YOU GET THOSE
FUCKING RIPPLES—”
Jump! They’ve got the fucking ripples
going. Blink, blink. Adam hasn’t even twitched, crikey.
“All
right, roll it!”
The clapper boy shoots forward looking
anxious—understandable, working for the great D.D. Especially as he’s actually
an Aussie, he comes with the studios, apparently. Captain’s Daughter
Scene whatever, take three hundred and forty-two. Well, it feels like it, anyway.
“From the top! ADAM! From the TOP!”
So at this point D.M. Mallory actually gets
to act with, no, that’s not right, gets to have the famous Adam McIntyre act at
her! He crinkles up the famous black-fringed, very blue eyes just slightly, and
smiles a modified version of that makes-ya-go-weak-at-the-knees, just slightly
wistful smile, I could die happy right now.
Vyvyan Carteret-Brown
What about a wee drinkie-poo, Janey? Pink gin?
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(screaming)
No! Cut! Wake up, man!
McINTYRE, AS HIMSELF
Sorry, Derry, but you did say ‘From the top’.
(screaming)
No! Your line
before Lily Rose gets up, what’s
wrong with you?
ROSIE, AS HERSELF
(from the sidelines)
Stunned into complete insensibility by the inanity of
the dialogue?
Shut up, Lily
Rose! Wake up, man!
McINTYRE, AS HIMSELF
(meekly)
Yes. Sorry, Derry.
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(grimly)
Roll it!
Captain’s Daughter Scene whatever, take three hundred
and
forty-three.
VYVYAN CARTERET-BROWN
So, is that settled, Janey, darling? Pick you up
around eightish for a bite of din-dins, and then the
hop on Sir Paul’s yacht?
ROSIE, AS CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
(from the sidelines; vaguely)
Mm? Oh, yes, lovely, Vyvvy…
ME, AS MYSELF
(jump, gasp! –hadn’t expected her to give
with the line from behind me.)
D.D., AS HIMSELF
(screaming)
Get up, girl, Goddammit!
Oh,
shit, I geddit: first she sounds vague ’cos she’s thinking about Euan Keel
(when Adam McIntyre’s asked her on a date? She must be MAD), and then
she wanders over and looks out dreamily, still thinking of— I get up quickly.
This move meets with the smooth, sophisticated
response we were all expecting.
“Not like a bloody ELEPHANT! –CUT! What’s
WRONG with you cretins, do I have to tell you to stop every time these pinheads
fuck up a scene?”
Yes, ’course he does, he’d kill them if
they stopped filming before he yelled “Cut”, and he knows they know it. So,
gee, he makes me practise it three times without the cameras wasting huge
amounts of very expensive film, this must be a record. See, the camera’s
dollied back and all it’s getting is less than a quarter of my profile and then
my back view as I stroll over to the porthole and prop an elbow on it and gaze
out dreamily, still less than a quarter of the profile showing— All right, I will
stand on one leg and just bend the near hind, if that’s what constitutes
standing dreamily Fifties-style in your mind, Grate Director, it’s all mad
anyway. Then we actually do it with the camera rolling and it’s a take. Blow me
down flat.
“All right, dear?” says Rupy in a lowered
voice as I finally stagger back to my chair.
“Yeah.” Flop. Edge cherry sandals off, rub
one ankle with other foot. “Gee, these Fifties shoes are a bugger. –Ooh!” Very
weakly: “Thanks, Rupy.”
“Think nothing of it, Dot!” he hisses,
kneeling and massaging my feet and ankles firmly. Gee, that’s better, bless
you, Rupy Maynarde!
“Quiet on SET!”
Yeah, yeah, keep ya dyed and styled hair
on, Grate Director.
And so it goes on…
Ring,
ring! Ring, ring— Bugger me, it’s crack of dawn! Surely the cretins can't
have decided they need me on set today after all? “’Lo?”
“Hi, Dot, ’s’me.”
Deanna. Now what? Rosie’s already smuggled
her on set to see Adam McIntyre—in fact he actually spoke nicely to her. She
was overcome, of course, though later admitting sadly that he looks a bit older
in real life than she’d thought and that that fabulous thick, wavy,
just-long-enough black hair must be—well, not dyed—tinted, cos he must be as old
as Pierce Brosnan, don’t I think? That idea she had of having her hair permed
and dyed—no, well, it’s dark, so bleached and then re-dyed—to a deep auburn
just (coincidentally) like Georgy Harris’s long, thick, dark auburn curls seems
to have been dropped.
Bob Springer’s got an awful cold so he’s
decided not to open up today and he’s given her the day off—
“Um, Deanna, I’m real sorry—No! Just
listen! They don’t want me on set today and I’m not supposed to go in
when I haven’t been told to!”
“Oh.”
I’m just gonna suggest that we can go
shopping—that’s what she normally does on her days off, of course—when I
remember. “Um, I promised Rupy I’d take him on the harbour today.”
“An all-day cruise?” she asks cautiously.
No, I have got some sense! Rupy
Maynarde? Hours staring at expanses of grey-green water and dampish patches of
dark bush? “No—”
“Ooh, a lunchtime cruise? With champagne?”
she breathes.
He’d be lucky! Fizzy acid white, laden with
sugar that doesn’t hide the acid. “Um, well, no. –I am not mean as Uncle
Scrooge, and do me a favour and just say Scrooge, will ya, ya sound like ruddy
Darien McKenzie! I asked him how long he’d be up for, so we’re just gonna get
the Manly ferry. –I know there’s nothing to do over there in winter, Deanna!
We’re gonna find a trendy café, don’t tell me there aren’t none of them
two yards from Manly Beach, and have a cappuccino and then get the next ferry
back.”
So she goes: “I’ll come, too.” Not a
suggestion.
“Yeah, um, I think maybe Dawlish’s driver,
Aaron, might be with us. If he can get away. Well, normally he drives D.D. in
to the studio at crack of dawn, like in about half an hour’s time,” I
note evilly, “and then he doesn’t do anything until the crews knock off and D.D.
has to stop filming or pay them overtime.”
“Um, that’s okay,” she says blankly.
Sigh. “Yeah, only the thing is, he’s real
good-looking— No! Will ya just listen! And Rupy fancies him dead
rotten— No! Will ya for Pete’s sake LISTEN!” Gee, she’s listening. “Rosie
says he isn’t gay, but that doesn’t mean that poor old Rupy doesn’t fancy him,
so just hold off, will ya?”
What do I think you are? Gee, Deanna, I
think you’re a dim little dollybird that’d take one look at dishy dumb Aaron in
his zoot-suit and tiny oblong-lensed mirror-glass sunnies (yep, in midwinter)
and go for it, that’s what. No, I don’t say it, even though I haven’t had me
mug of Instant yet, what heroism!
So she’s gonna come. She’ll get the next
train over to my place!
Yeah. Well, it’s only a hop, skip and jump.
You might think a real fitness-freak would walk it—or jog it— No, ya right, not
in the twenty-first century.
So she’s got here and after I’m over the
shock—well, for Pete’s sake, we’re not tourists or film stars, and it’s winter—we
have another cuppa, ’cos actually, if she’d of let me get a word out, Rupy
isn’t expecting me to pick him up from his hotel until considerably later in
the morning. Oh, well, at least that fake-Seventies fake-fur-lined jacket over
the 2002-style uneven-hemmed black winter skirt is warm; and the long black
boots, don’t ask me whether they’re In or just an idea of her own, will
keep her legs warm; and probably Rupy’s used to even weirder sights than Ma
Pinchot-inspired scraped-back-painfully-off-the-face ballet buns with one
chopstick through them plus and one small Singapore orchid that clashes with
every other thing about her—well, crikey, it’s pale mauve! The lipstick’s kinda
pale apricot, don’t ask me whether that’s In or an idea of her own—Oh,
forget it. As I say, that real odd jacket’ll be warm.
Me? Grungy once-blue (and very warm) parka
over fairly new, well newish, black tracksuit pants—fleecy-lined, you bet.
Okay, they were on sale at Kmart, but at least they aren’t my old tracksuit
pants. All right, Deanna, if me Sydney Swans scarf is gonna reduce you to tears
(on sale at Woolie’s, think it was post-season or a year they lost every
game—whatever), I’ll tuck it inside the parka— No?
“It makes you look like a pregnant duck,”
she moans.
Gee, quite a telling image, well done,
Deanna.
“No way am I gonna go on the harbour
without a warm scarf round me neck. Though I suppose this red’d look better
with me bikie jack—”
“No!” she screams.
All right, no. It’s more of an evening
jacket, anyway. But hey, I got the hat to match! I put it on. It’s got a
pom-pom, and all. Poor Deanna is reduced to a gulp.
“Rupy’s known Rosie for years, ya know: ya
think he’s gonna even notice?”
Apparently Yes, ’cos he’s known and disapproved
of the rags she gets round in— Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
“That’ll be a Jehovah’s Witness or a
fucking local council candidate,” I warn as the doorbell goes.
Ignoring me, she hurries to answer it. It
could be an urgent message from the studios, telling me to get on over— Gee, ’tisn’t,
it’s Rupy. Oops, and Aaron plus the limo!
“Oy, I hope you don’t imagine we’re gonna
drive that into town and spend the rest of the day looking for somewhere to
park?”
“There must be parking buildings, Dot!”
Rupy bleats.
“There
are. They cost an arm and a leg and from eight-thirty on they’re all full. Believe
it!”
I think he believes it, anyway he’s looking
at me limply as if he believes it and Aaron is also looking at me limply as if he
believes it.
“Well, how were you planning to get into
town?” Rupy bleats.
“Train. Ya better come in, it’s not due for
a bit. Oh—this is my sister Deanna, Aaron.”
“Hey, Deanna,” he says, American-style.
He’s a Canadian, actually, and I was under the impression that he’d been
practising a fake-Pom accent, in the hopes D.D.’d give him a bit-part in the
film. It hasn’t dawned that D.D. doesn’t hire drivers in order to turn them
into bit-part actors.
He asks very politely if he can use the john,
so when he’s gone off to it I demand: “What happened to the fake-Pom accent,
Rupy?”
“Mm? Oh, well, he doesn’t always remember,
though I have been giving him some coaching. I think the immediate cause of
this morning’s forgetfulness,” he notes, looking hard at my scarf and hat, “is—”
“Been there, done that.”
“She’s as bad as Rosie!” he says
exasperatedly to Deanna.
“Yes,” my sister agrees succinctly.
“Dot, dear, you could look really nice. Really
nice,” he says heavily.
“I don’t wannoo. Anyway, Deanna’s looking
really nice enough for two, don’tcha think?”
He brightens, and agrees, and what a find
that jacket is, dear— And they plunge into Make-up, Clothes and Hair. Gee,
isn’t it a pity the gay bit has to go along with it in the male, cos actually,
the pair of them are soul-mates. Same tastes in reading matter, too: she grabbed
all of those flash English and French Vogues he bought Rosie when she
was laid up.
I totter out to the kitchen and boil the
jug again. In a few mins Aaron joins me. At first he just stands by my elbow
saying nothing. Then he says with an effort: “Your sister seems to be getting
on real well with Rupy.”
“Yeah. She gets on well with anything that
can talk clothes and makeup. –You don’t have to come if you don’t wannoo,
Aaron.”
“What? No!” he goes, jumping and going very
red. “Of course I want to come!”
Yeah, well, I’d of thought that the three
of them would be soul-mates, because he’s got up as trendy as her or Rupy.
Though him and Rupy aren’t the same style. Like, Aaron’s Marlon Brando in his
very early phase: very dark Levi’s, with the cuffs turned up about ten
centimetres, geddit? I don’t deny he may believe he’s doing the James Dean bit,
but that pout is definitely Brando. Heavy black boots, dunno if that indicates
a conscious rejection of the fake-street-kid sneakered bit or just the fact
that he’s noticed it rains a lot in Sydney this time of year. Naturally he’s
got the leather jacket to match: very, very new and shiny. The hair’s sort
of—uh, actually it’s sort of mixed James Dean, think that is meant to be a
cowlick, and Shane Warne. Only he won’t know our Australian icons, so he must
of got it off whatever Mr Warne, who by the by must be a good fifteen years his
elder, got it off. It is the same colour as, uh, lemme put it this way: it is
yellow, which is how the great bowler is wearing his, and it is lighter on top
plus and a bit curly and a bit spiky, and more brown at the very short but artfully
not shaven back and sides— Look, forget it. Trendy, it is. Fifties, it ain’t.
Rupy’s quite different—not the Royal Naval
slash younger Leslie Phillips look today, though. Giant suede safari boots,
grey-brown pants, rather shiny—they’re not waterproof fabric, are
they?—and a huge R.M. Williams trench-coat, dark greeny-brown, open over The
cream Aran jumper. Cor. Twists and plaits and bobbles, plus twists on
the plaits—Cor. Ready for a bush safari Downunder, you said it! Dunno what’s
under that, ’cos the neck is shielded by a very artfully twisted and knotted spotted
hanky—not red and white, no, he hasn’t quite tipped over the edge. Tasteful
white spots on a grey-brown background that tones with the pants. He has to
wear his hair very Leslie Phillips for the part, so of course he hasn’t dared
to have it cut, but instead of parted on the side and neatly brushed, all shiny
and palest yellow on top, he’s slicked it right back. Gel and mousse,
I’d say.
So we all have another mug of Instant and
then, after some of us have been or in the case of my sister been ordered to go
and then been—well, heck, does she wanna get caught short on the wharves? Cos
any public bog in Sydney is gonna be filthy, you betcha horrendously expensive
knee-length boots—we go.
Deanna enlivens the journey by telling them
about the last three horrendous train crashes on the Sydney suburban lines. But
gee, here we are in town and we’re not dead yet! Rupy seems to have expected
that the thing would park itself neatly right beside the ferry—don’t ask why.
Then he thinks we oughta take a taxi. A taxi? In downtown Sydney? Even Deanna’s
looking horrified.
“Bus,” I explain briskly. “This way. Come on,
Rupy!”
He comes on.
“See?” I say as in spite of Deanna’s fearful
predictions, we’re in nice time to walk onto the ferry.
“You sure got organisational ability, Dot!”
beams Aaron.
Uh—have I? Seemed like simple common sense,
to me. Not to mention, the ability to look up the relevant timetables coupled
with knowing how long the bus takes from the station to— Never mind.
At first Rupy is quite confused because he
can’t see the Statue of Liberty but we all sort that one out, no sweat. Then he
does see the Opera House (impossible to miss: right), and brightens
terrifically. Of course! Doesn’t it make you think of windjammers in the Roaring
Forties? (No.) Helpfully Deanna points out the Harbour Bridge! Of course
they’re totally blank, they don’t realise it’s an Australian icon. (Almost as
much as Mr Warne, yep.) Rupy murmurs doubtfully: “Newcastle?” and Aaron just
goes on looking blank.
Helpfully Deanna explains where Newcastle
is. Jesus, is it worth saying slowly and clearly “Newcastle-on-Tyne, not our
one!” Or, um, “Auf Wiedersehen, Pet?” No, forget it, forget it, Rupy’s
smiling kindly and totally blankly, and Aaron’s also smiling blankly, and why,
in short, didn’t I just put the three of them on the ferry and leave them to
it!
… Ooh, this is nice! Yep, trendy
little Manly cafés with indifferent cappuccino are much more Rupy’s bag than
views of our great Sydney architectural icons.
After a bit it dawns: Rupy is looking round
hopefully because he wants to be recognised. Oh, dear. Mind you, Rosie has told
me that he’s used to not being recognised, but hope springs eternal in the
forty-year-old gay breast on that as well as other, more intimate subjects (she
said it, not me).
“Um, they’re all used to seeing you in your
uniform or your blazer,” I explain apologetically.
“What?” he goes, jumping. “Oh, yes, of course,
dear! Not so say, not used to seeing me in the company of football fans.”
He eyes the outfit balefully, even though I have taken the hat off.
“I’d’ve said, ice hockey,” notes Aaron,
grinning.
“Exactly,” he sighs, looking sadly into his
empty cup.
“Yep. Want another, Rupy?”
“No, I’ll get them, Dot,” he says quickly.
We’ve already had a demonstration of his
total inability to grasp Australian money, even though Aaron told him kindly to
think of a dollar as being just like a pound. So I get up. “Okay, thanks. But
I’ll come with you, help you with your change, eh?”
“Oh, ta ever so, Dot, dear!”
So we both go up to the counter.
“Dot, dear,” he says in a cautious voice,
as we wait behind two middle-aged ladies that can’t decide which sort of cake
to have, “did you by any chance say something to little Deanna on the subject
of Aaron?”
I’ve gone very, very red.
“It was kindly meant, but there’s no need
to be tactful on my account,” he says firmly.
“Uh, no!” I gasp.
“Let
her go for it if she fancies it,” he says with a smile in his voice. “We’re all
agreed he’s a nice boy, and only needs to grow up a little and drop the wanting
to be in flickers bit.”
“Um, yeah.”
“It’s from a song,” he says, twinkling at
me. “One of those determinedly low-key, low-budget, not-very musical
musicals—predating Lloyd Webber, dear. Had a bit-part in the thing, years back.
Living in flickers!” he suddenly carols.
“Uh—yeah. Goddit,” I croak as the two
middle aged ladies jump and look round and the dim-looking girl in the trendy
black frock at the coffee machine pauses with her hand suspended over its
lever.
Then one of the ladies decides she’ll have
a slice of that one, it hasn’t been sliced at all yet, so the girl, sighing, heaves
it out of the glassed-in counter and disappears out the back with it. It’s the
“gotta serve ya cos it pays me wages but I don’t want yer ruddy custom” thing,
not uncommon in these Antipodean parts, granted, but boy, if I’d behaved like
that or anything like it Leila woulda given me the sack before the cat could
lick its ear!
“What?”
he spots—he’s pretty sharp, is Rupy.
“When
I was waitressing, Leila—my boss—would of had me out on my ear if I’d of sighed
like that in front of a customer,” I explain, trying to be quiet enough for the
lady not to overhear me.
“But of course, darling! It’s the British
Empire syndrome, I’m afraid!” He’s peering at the cakes in their glassed-in
enclosure. “Are those real strawberries?”
“Eh? Yeah: be from Queensland or maybe the
Northern Territory.”
He sighs deeply. “Isn’t it tropical!
And that pineapple meringue thing Rosie’s mum did was just wonderful, never
mind the controversy it provoked!”
“Yeah, it was pretty good. You’ll get
plenty of pineapple when we go on location up in Queensland, Rupy.”
“They all look yummy… Which are you going
to have, Dot, dear?”
I wasn’t gonna have anything, actually,
what with the screaming that went on last time I hadda get into the pale yellow
thing. Weakly I admit I’m thinking of a slice of the pavlova with kiwifruit.
“Ye-es… To tell the absolute truth, dear,” he
hisses, “dearest John treated me to tea at the Ritz last time he took
Rosie—it’s sort of their thing, you see, but naughty Rosie told him I was dying
to go—oh, sorry dear, what Rosie would call afternoon tea, not dinner.”
Ulp.
Suddenly that stupid phone conversation with Rosie just after she had Baby
Bunting comes back to me with horrid clarity. Slices of real lemon—right.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. That’s right, he does sometimes
takes her there,” I manage to croak.
“Yes. And we had little tarts with custard
and fruit, including two slices of kiwi—that is the same as kiwifruit, isn’t it?
–Yes; and I’m afraid it was tasteless!” he hisses.
Gee, up the Ritz. “This won’t be tasteless.
They’re in season, you see.”
“Ye-es… Isn’t it winter, though?”
“Yes. That’s their season,” I explain
firmly.
“Oh, good. Um… Not absolutely sure,” he
hisses, “what ‘pavlova’ is, dear!”
“Like
a very fluffy meringue. If you liked Aunty May’s pudding, you’ll like it.”
“Oh! I know! Kate made us one for a treat!
Delish! Goody, I’ll have it. –Just a mo’, I’ll see if the others want some!” He
dashes back to the table. The girl still hasn’t reappeared with the lady’s
cake, cut or uncut, so I just wait.
He comes back with Deanna.
Immediately she goes: “Dot, that pavlova’ll
be full of calories, you know they’re mainly sugar; and cream as well?”
“Yeah. This is a treat. But no-one’s forcing
you to join in.”
Suddenly Rupy puts his arm round her.
“Nonsense, Dot, one is!”
Deanna’s gone into a giggling fit.—See?
Told you they were soul-mates! What a bloody pity he’s gay. But then, I s’pose he
wouldn’t be as nice, if he wasn’t.—“Um, well just for the once, then!”
“Good. Now, dear, since we’re momentarily out
of Aaron’s orbit—” Omigod! He’s going to say it!
He’s said it. Dunno who’s redder, her or
me.
“Nuh—Buh—” she stutters.
“One is definitely not forcing you into that,
dear!”
“No!” she gasps, biting her lip and looking
as if she’s gonna laugh again—phew!
“But feel free,” he finishes, stepping up
hurriedly to the counter before Sulky Counter-Girl, who’s finished serving the
two ladies, can disappear out the back.
Since he takes two of the cappuccinos
carefully over to the table while the girl’s operating on the pav I grab the
opportunity to hiss: “Do ya like him?”
Very red again. “I think so,” she admits in
a small voice.
“Good.”
So going back—we all huddle inside and
no-one even pretends to look at the view—she plucks up courage and asks Aaron
where he comes from. Gee, that must be a normal conversational gambit in Canada
as well, ’cos he tells her, and pretty soon they’re chatting away like anything.
Mostly about pop stars, but never mind. Rupy catches my eye and smirks complacently.
Yes, well, Rosie did tell me that Matchmaker is his middle name. One of his
middle names. Pines-Hopelessly-After-Lovely-Young-Lads is, of course, another.
As we dock Rupy has an inspiration: why not
find the café where I used to work and have lunch there?
“Leila’s?“ I croak. “But it’s in a business
area, it’s not trendy or—”
But he’s got the bit between his teeth. Oh,
well, why not? The bus ride’ll show them a bit more of the city.
She’s at the counter in charge of the
coffee machine—the bloody thing’s hissing and spitting like billyo. “Oh, it is
you,” she greets me.
“Hi, Leila. How’s it going?”
“Considering
it’s the middle of winter, not too bad. I hope your friends are going to order
lunch, not just water and lime.”
“Yeah, ’course!”
“Good,” she concedes grimly. “How’s that
cousin of yours?”
“She’s out of hospital, thanks, Leila. Oh—she
got your card, thanks very much.”
“I know, she sent me a thank-you note,” she
admits.
“Um, yeah. She sent out loads, John hadda
have them printed up, she got so many cards and flowers.”
“Yes. So is she going on with the film?”
Boy, she can’t read The Sydney
Morning Star, for sure! No, well, starts work too early. “Yeah. They’re
kind of shooting round the leg.”
“I see. Do my eyes deceive me, or is that
one of them?” She nods in the direction of Rupy.
“Yeah, that’s Rupy Maynarde, he plays
Commander.”
“Oh, yes. But I thought they had a real
film star lined up for her in the film?”
“That’s right: Rupy doesn’t get her in the
film.”
“I see. –You haven’t changed.”
“Um, no! Uh—hope not,” I admit, eyeing her
cautiously.
“I did
hear a rumour you’d been roped into the thing,” she admits.
“Only
as a double. Well, bit of extra cash.”
“So didn’t that job with your uncle pan
out?”
“Yeah, it’s going good. I’m doing the film
crappola during my leave. See, I can put the extra money towards a house. The
pay’s really good because I look quite a lot like Rosie, ya see, they shoot me
from the back standing up and so forth.”—Thought the bit about the pay’d strike
a chord, she’s nodding approvingly.—“Um, how’s the fish, today?”
“Really good. They had whole salmon trout
on special, so I got two. Mind you, that so-called catering course doesn’t seem
to have taught bloody Glenn how to clean a fish,” she notes grimly. “I had to
do them myself.” She looks round the not nearly half-full café. “Look, you can
have fish steaks done any way you like, Dot; I’ll do them for you, if you’d like
to nip behind the counter and look after the machine. That Jamie,”—with an evil
glare at the waitress—“is incapable of pulling a lever, let alone making
change!”
“Righto; thanks, Leila, I’d love a grilled
fish steak. You better check with the others.”
“Okay.” She goes off to check, sending the
unfortunate Jamie off with a visible flea in her ear, poor kid, and I nip
behind the counter. Quite like old times! …Yep, that bloody machine’s doing its
thing, all right. But I manage to serve up three cappuccinos and two short
blacks without dripping all down the sides of the cups, or alternatively,
scalding meself. Quite a feat, really.
Gee, the fish is ace! She’s grilled them
and put bits of pan-fried sliced ginger and spring onions and chunks of the
sacred bamboo shoots that usually get doled out one sliver per customer, on the
side. Yum! No chilli, well, that’s no loss.
I’ve warned them about the desserts so we
all have coffee and halva except Deanna, she just has a coffee.
By this time the place has cleared and
Leila comes over to us looking, for her, quite uncertain of herself. “Uh, Mr
Maynarde, I was wondering—”
“Call me Rupy, Leila!” he beams. “That fish
was totally delish!”
“Thanks. Rupy, then.” She clears her
throat. “Look, my mother’s a terrific fan of yours, and I was wondering—”
Of course he’ll give her an autograph!
(Actually the only surprising thing is he isn’t outing with a signed photo. The
pockets of that ruddy R.M. Williams coat are big enough to hold one, for sure.)
“She’ll be thrilled,” she says with a sigh.
“Thanks very much, Rupy.”
“How is she, Leila?” I ask cautiously. She
never did talk much about her mum. Rosie reckoned it was because the old lady’s
a Lebanese that can’t speak much English and Leila’s ashamed of her, but in my
opinion it was more because that woulda been idle conversation and the time
would be better spent rinsing out ashtrays from the pavement tables or making
up kofta balls and putting them in the freezer, or saving electricity by washing
the dishes by hand, or like that. But I do know the old dame’s been almost
bedridden for years. Had two hip operations yonks back, and was okay for a bit,
but she’s well into her eighties. Leila was the youngest of a large family, and
she’s no spring chicken.
She sighs again. “She’s keeping pretty
well, but it’s getting harder and harder to find something to interest her.
It’s not that she isn’t bright enough, but— Well, that’s the trouble, really.
She’s read all the French books the library’s got and that stupid girl from the
Housebound Readers Service keeps bringing her books that she’s already read,
and of course she takes it as an insult—and they probably do assume their old
ducks forget what they’ve already read, but… And last April old Ma Bailey from
downstairs died—you know, Dot, she was the one that Mum used to play backgammon
with. And I haven’t managed to find anyone else to play it with her.”
“Shit, that’s no good, Leila, your mum must
really muss her Tuesday game.”
“Yes,” she says heavily.
Shouldn’t of said that, because it’s
Tuesday today, and Rupy’s immediately inspired! It’s no bother at all, we
weren’t doing anything this afternoon! Expressions of pure dismay have come
over Deanna’s and Aaron’s faces. Of course Leila tries to say he mustn’t, but
finally he makes her agree, and she rushes off to phone, and gee, her mum’s
thrilled at the idea of meeting Commander in person!
That’s
it, then. Guess we gotta go. And in case Deanna and Aaron imagined them
expressions were gonna let them off the hook, no—way.
Right, we’re here. Rupy made us take a taxi,
dunno if it’s coming off the whack he’s getting for the film or D.D.’s
publicity budget or what, and I’m not asking. He’s rushed eagerly up the front
steps of the ageing apartment block so I tell the two of them: “Get out. Ya
coming.” Gee, they’ve got out.
And up we go in the lift.
“Hullo, Mrs Morton, dunno if you remember
muh—”
“Leetle Dot! But of course! Come een, may
dear—mais you ’ave not shanzhe’ at all!” Words to that effect. The old
girl’s been out here so long I don’t think she realises when she’s putting in a
French word in instead of an English one. Deanna and Aaron begin to look
slightly relieved; see, they thought they wouldn’t be able to understand a
syllable but actually her English isn’t as bad as all that: just, she prefers
reading in the language she grew up with—and if it was them dumped down
in a foreign country— Forget it. Neither of them has got enough between the
ears to even begin to imagine it.
Old Mrs M’s thrilled to meet Rupy, of
course, and even on top of that lunch on top of all that pav he doesn’t say no
to a Lebanese-Froggy idea of an afternoon tea. Gee, it’s yummy, don’t think the
old duck’s ever heard of Arnott’s and before you ask, the reason Leila’s menu
doesn’t feature all these lovely little crescents smothered in icing sugar or
tiny cubes covered with chocolate icing and with a whole glacé cherry on top
with its stalk, dig that, is that the locals wouldn’t know what the fuck
they were and she’d have to throw most of them out or, horrors, let the help
have them. Mmf? Oh, petits fours, eh? Yeff, uhlish—parm me! Chew, swallow.
Delicious, Mrs Morton!
–Look, their name isn’t Morton: the
old joker changed it way back, he had a persecution complex or something and
believe you me, what Sydney was like when they settled here he had bloody good
reason for it. And never mind what ya hear from the nice educated upper-middles
on SBS or the ABC, there’s still plenty of good solid prejudice around today.
“Don’t start,” I warn as we queue for the
bus—well, shit, it’ll take us right into town, a hop, skip and jump from the
station!
“No, Dot, dear,” says good old Rupy
pacifically. “Very provident, dear.”
“Eh? Not the bus, ya nit! No, I meant them
two.”
Given that she’s come away with a box of
ribbons and beads the old duck claimed was going begging, not to mention a pair
of little gold earrings that were probably meant to come to Leila, and he’s
come away with a box of the home-made crescent-shaped biscuits, they both look
puzzled, cos they weren’t gonna start.
Sigh. Oh, deary, deary me. “I was just
gonna say, never mind if it wasn’t your elegant arvo downtown on the strut, or
whaddever the current In phrase might be for what the film crowd do when the rest
of the world goes to the Moll,”—Deanna’s smiling weakly and trying to
avoid Rupy’s and Aaron’s eyes—“cos real life’s like that. Only I can see it
never occurred to the pair of ya, so forget—”
Rupy’s gone into an agonising, spluttering,
side-clasping paroxysm.
“Yeah! All right! Will ya just—Rupy!
Will ya just give over!”
He does give over, or at least he eventually
gets to the eye-mopping, nose-blowing stage. At which point Deanna finishes me
off with a tolerant: “You are mad, Dot.”
Yeah, all right, I’m mad.
Rosie’s got me into their room at the
Marshalls’ place on the excuse she wants to lend me a dress for Dawlish’s coming-up
staged meet with Euan Keel for the benefit of the paparazzi, and she goes: “Dot,
I’d better warn you about Euan.”
Sigh. “Rosie, you been warning me about
Euan since approx 1999! Don’t bother, I know what you’re gonna say.”
“You don’t.”
All right, I don’t. “Go on, then,” I groan,
sinking onto the edge of their Emperor-size bed.
“He, um, he’s very attractive,” she says,
biting her lip.
“I’ve seen—”
“Yes! It’s different in real life! He can
be very warm and, um, cosy,” she offers, frowning over it.
Eh? Blank stare.
“Yes! See! It’s the last thing you’d expect
from a famous fillum star.”
“I wouldn’t say he was all that famous.”
“All right, from a rising star of British
Theaytre! I know I mighta given you the impression he was totally up
himself,”—I’m nodding hard, so she gives a sickly smile, think she was
expecting me to contradict her—“um, well, yeah, he can be, but he only lets it
show if he can’t stand the person, or if he’s, um, I was gonna say in a really
bad mood, but it’s not that. Really unhappy,” she says, biting the lip again.
What she means is, really unhappy like when
she dumped him for John—even though he’d already dumped her before he knew
about it. No, well, from what I can gather, it was more really unhappy because
he was jealous of the sort of thing that her and John had, more than because he
wanted her back. Well, I’m pretty sure that in a way he did, but it wasn’t her
he wanted, not L.R. Marshall, sociologist and bloody hard case, it was more the
pretty picture he had of her as dear little curly-haired Rosie, the sweet
girlfriend. Or that’s what filtered through the letters and emails, anyway.
“Right, well, how many months is it since
he busted up with Katie Herlihy? Okay, I’ll expect him to put me down relentlessly.”
“No! Just listen, Dot!”
I listen.
“Like I say, he can be really cosy and, um,
he’s an adept at sizing up the, um, the tone of any social group he happens to
be with and joining in— Don’t interrupt!”—All right, I’m not interrupting, but
I have heard all this before.—“If he spots you and Rupy and Deanna doing your
down-home, Leila’s-place thing, he’s quite capable of giving the impression
that nothing could make him happier.”
“Um, yeah,” I mutter.
She takes a deep breath. “I’ve told you
he’s weak and a follower, but don’t expect to get that immediate impression
from him. He’s more than capable of coming over as very macho and, uh, well, to
put it crudely, adult, capable and sophisticated, it’s one of his best
disguises.”
“Macho, adult, capable and sophisticated,
along with the cosy.”
“Yes! Wake up, Dot!”
Blink. Think I’m awake.
“Added to which,” she says, the—hah,
hah—rosebud mouth tightening, help, she looks horribly like Aunty Kate, “he is
more than capable of spotting what Derry’s up to. More than.”
“Yuh—Uh—is he?” (Weakly.) “Um, well, he has
known him for a fair while… Um, well, what do you reckon he is up to,
Rosie?”
“I’m not absolutely sure,”—that’s a
first—“but I think (a) he’s decided to get you into acting and either star you
in his next big epic or present you to Brian Hendricks as the next Captain’s
Daughter on a plate, or quite possibly both, (b) he’s decided that he’s gonna
stage a thing between you and Euan for the delectation of the media, and I do
mean the global media, not just the Aussie lot, with a spicy side-dish of the
intriguing triangle of you, me, and Euan—oh, yeah—and (c), less likely but I
think very possible, he’s gonna push you at Euan for real.” I must be goggling
blankly at her because she adds: “The scenario in (b) not being for real, you
see.”
“Yuh—Uh, yeah.” Why have I gone bright red like
a total nana? “But why push me at him for real?”
“Aside from the fact that it’ll enable Double
Dee Productions to milk the publicity for yonks? Because it must be blindingly
clear to him that with Euan in a sour mood he isn’t gonna get the sort of performance
out of him that he wants. It’ll be acceptable, yes, Euan is a professional. But
he won’t walk off the screen and into the ladies’ hearts with that dazzling but
cosy smile that he specialises in, that turns them into palpitating jellies. –I
mean it, Dot. I once heard D.D. sum up Euan’s effect on his female audience as ‘panting
to mother him, never mind if they’re twenty-three or sixty-three’.”
“Just because you’ve always thought he was
the weak sort that needs mothering—”
“No! For God’s sake, why the fuck would I
bother to say it if it wasn’t true?”
Uh—well, I can’t think of a reason,
admittedly. “Um, well, all right. Well, I wouldn’t put anything past D.D.,
that’s for sure. Um, so”—boy, do I sound pathetic!—“what should I do, Rosie?”
“Um, just try not to be taken in by any of
Euan’s acts, I guess, Dot.”
“Shit, I don’t want a spoilt actor that
can’t stand on his own two—”
“Look,” she interrupts very loudly, “he
can make you forget every syllable the two of us have ever exchanged on the
subject—believe it! He is very, very attractive, Dot.”
Gulp. I think I’ve got it, yeah. “Um, I
don’t see what we can do about it, though, Rosie. I will take Euan with a grain
of salt.”
She sighs. “A girl can only try—yeah. –Hang
on!”
I’m hanging on, but without hope.
“Dot,” she says, the cheeks very flushed,
“I think there is something we can do about it! We could let Euan in on
what Derry’s plotting!”
“What?” I croak, turning brilliant
scarlet, feel as if the top of me scalp’s peeling off.
She’s so carried away she doesn’t notice.
“Yes! Then the three of us can sucker bloody Derry into thinking his ruddy plots
are working! We’ll work the triangle thing for all it’s worth, too! Public
appearances in the same dresses with him between us, whaddaya think?”
Gulp. Apart from thinking that she’s
forgotten she’s got a husband? “Rosie, I gotta say it, although it’s a pretty
brilliant idea, I think the poor twerp’s gonna be really hurt and—and
insulted.”
“Uh—oh. But I can explain it to him so as
he’s not hurt! I mean, it’s flattering, really, isn’t it?”
“To learn that flaming Derry Dawlish
considers you just one of the puppets he’s got on flaming strings? Come off
it!”
“No, but he already knows D.D.’s like that!
And what’s the alternative?”
Apparently to let Euan Keel sucker me, one
way or another, while Dawlish is doing his best to sucker me at the same time.
Well, he doesn’t cut no ice and never did. It still hasn’t dawned that
Isabelle and Scott are my friends and he’s giving me a free trip to Queensland
to see them. “Um… Well, if you can get him on our side, Rosie—”
Yes! Of course she can!
Right,
well, she can be the one to front up to the bloke and break it to him: no way
am I gonna be part of that little scene!
She takes a choc, she’s still got loads of
boxes left, in fact new ones keep arriving at their house in the post every
day. Kenny tried to say they oughta be inspected first in case they were bombs
or anthrax or like that, but everyone concluded this meant he was gonna depute
himself to do the inspecting, so that didn’t wash.
“Have a choc, Dot.”—All right, I will.—“I
didn’t bring the worst of the frocks: well, I don’t deny Rupy packed them, but
John unpacked them, our luggage woulda been madly overweight and we had Baby
Bunting to carry as well. Um, well, could you look for yourself?”
It
looks like I’ve got to, doesn’t it? Blow, thought she might have forgotten all
about the ostensible object of the exercise. So I go over and open the wardrobe
door… Yeah, well.
“That fluffy blue princess-length thing—the
very pale blue one—has been known to go over well with the male half,” she
notes detachedly.
“No—way.”
“All right, no way. Uh—that’s not a dinner
dress, Dot,” as I look at something strapless, tight, white, and embroidered up
as far as the nipples of the stiffened and boned cups with tiny black beads in
sort of squiggly patterns.
“Plus and he’s seen you in it?”
“Yeah. Back when,” she admits with a smile
in her voice, just as well John’s out in the family-room letting Aunt May
earbash him, eh?
“”My God!” I’ve just copped a gander at its
label.
“That’s one of the genuine Fifties ones
from old Miss Hammersley,” she explains.
“Right.” I gotta sit down! Fan, fan…
“I told Mum the bloody central heating was
on too high! And John hates it—turn it down, Dot. Twenty-one’ll do.”
It wasn’t that, actually, but now she comes
to mention it— So I turn it down: each room’s got its separate—Ya guessed that,
huh?
“Don’t tell me: she had it at twenty-six,”
she sighs.
“Something like that, yeah. Um… Hey, this red
one’s not bad!”
“One of mine,” says Rosie heavily.
“Eh? Oh! Not Fifties, then.”
“No, the day before yesterday’s,” she says
with a sigh.
Well, shit, it’s the only one that’s even
halfway decent! After a bit I venture: “Could just close me eyes, turn round,
and—”
“Pin the tail on the donkey?” suggests a deep
voice from the doorway and we both gasp.
John comes over and removes the box of chocs
just as her paw’s about to close on one. “No. You undertook to do this ruddy
film, remember?”
Ouch, am I about to witness the first stage
in the Haworth marital home break-up? Rosie’s gone red as a beet. “For God’s
sake! So far he’s only shot my face and tits, do ya think—”
Aw, gee, he does think guzzling chocs is
gonna make her put on weight round the face and tits—yeah. Not to mention the
spots.
“Spots? Mum made me eat raw silverbeet
salad last night, I defy any spot to—”
Apparently that reminds him: Marianne
Gridley-Smythe has given him a recipe for a wonderful health-food drink, one
just mixes it up in the blender and—
Oops. That’s done it!
“Bugger me, John! The rest of the world’s
been guzzling that sort of muck for the last thirty years, where you been
since the Seventies? –Don’t answer that. It’s putrid, and what’s more, it’s got
raw beetroot in it, and if ya think that improves its taste, not to mention its
bloody colour—!”
“I’m sure. But wouldn’t it be better than
eating May’s idea of a slimming, healthy salad?”
Gulp, feeble smile: he’s got her there. “Ya
could choke it down faster, that’s for sure.”
“Uh-huh. At least we’d be able to use up
some of that silverbeet that Jack planted—”
“Swiss chard,” she groans. “Don’t try to
use the Downunder vernacular, John, it doesn’t convince anyone.”
“Shit, is that what he calls it?” I go
tactlessly.
And of course I get one of those lovely
smiles, and he says: “Yes, he does, but most of the time we can forgive him, because
he’s only an ignorant Pom, Dot.”
“You said it,” she agrees. “Shit!”—It’s
dawned.—“Ya don’t mean you’re gonna force me to drink it at home as well?”
“Not
force,” he murmurs. “It’s certainly got lots of— Well, wheat germ, that’s
terribly good for you, isn’t it? And if we do decide to start another baby—”
So she hollers: “I managed to gestate the
first one all right without your help, or any bloody silverbeet, either!”
Shit, I am about to witness the
first stage in the Haworth marital home break-up!
“That’s very true,” he’s saying mildly. “I
just thought this might help you to stay fit and healthy. In fact, it’d do both
of us good.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs. “Whatever. I
suppose it won’t kill me.”
“I don’t think it will do that—no. –Come
on, Dot: bite on the bullet!”
“Huh! Oh!” (Blush, blush. The purpose of my
being in their room isn’t actually to witness the break— No.) “Um, well, none
of them seem to be right. Like, too evening-dressy, seems to be the word,
John.”
Help, he comes over to the wardrobe! “I
rather like this.” Gee, guess what, the pale blue fluffy piece of garbage:
Rosie wasn’t pulling my leg.
So she goes: “John, remember that
disastrous—dee-sah-ster-rous—evening at the bloody Yacht Club with Katie
and Euan in person?”
“My God, of course! Er—no, Dot.”
Shit, musta been bad. Wonder what it was?
And how soon before the great Katie-Herlihy-Euan-Keel bust-up it was?
“This one’s really elegant,” he offers
helpfully.
Like, on me? Black, princess-length
(Fifties, right), strapless, little sparkly thingos on the bodice, full skirt.
“Yes, he likes that one,” contributes Rosie
with a smile in her voice.
“Ye-es. Um, I’m a little bit shorter than
her, though, John.”
“Show her the shoes,” she says in a
fatalistic voice.
After quite some time, Imelda Marcos does
spring to mind, yeah, John decides they can’t have been packed. Will these do,
instead?
Eh? No! Very high-heeled black patent
sandals with ankle straps with a bow on them? I’d rather die! In fact if
I fall off them I will die! So I put them on. Yep, they look real good
with these here beat-up jeans of mine.
So Rosie makes me go into the ensuite and
get into the dress, shouting out rude instructions about bending over like putting
a bra on— Is my face red or is my face red! Cautiously I look at the result in
the mirror. Crikey. Well, it ain’t D.M. Mallory, that’s for sure. So I totter
out…
“Ooh!” she gulps.
John’s got this funny little smile on his
face.
“All right, I look ridic—”
“No!” he cries.—Oh, yeah?—“It’s just that
that dress makes Rosie looks quite a lot older and more sophisticated.”
Gee, wouldn’t ya think, like with her shoes
on and her hairdo, I’d look—Nope. “Gotcha. It’s out, then.”
“No, no, Dot!” he goes, laughing. “You look
lovely!”
“Right, just not older and sophisticated.
Well, D.D. wants girlish, so I guess it’ll do.”
“Yes, wear it, Dot. Black suits you,” she
says, now she’s wearing the identical funny little smile, look, I am not a kid!
Okay, I’ll wear the bloody thing, and if
D.D. has a dummy-spit I’ll tell him you and John picked it out!
It’s The Day. The carefully stage-managed public
performance isn’t actually gonna be Rosie and Euan’s first meeting after his
flight from England, though that’s what D.D.’s ordained it’s gonna look like,
because actually he arrived early this morning and went straight to bed to
sleep off the jet-lag. Then she rung him up and got Aaron to collect him,
incognito—having the broken leg might stop anyone else from indulging in the
sort of machinations that are meat and drink to her, but not Rosie—and drive him
round to the Marshalls’ place and right into the garage, having first made sure
that Aunty May and Yvonne had gone to the Mall. Joslynne, was who was working
the gizzmo on the garage door, if ya wanna know. It certainly isn’t the first
of Rosie’s plots she’s been involved in.
Don’t ask me what she said to the
poor guy, but she rang me up and assured me it was all okay, he was thrilled to
be in on the plot and spiting Derry. And he’s going to be very, very artful
about gradually falling for my charms—making D.D. suffer agonies thinking it’s not
gonna happen at first, see? And I am not, on any account, to get the giggles
and give it all away!
Get
the giggles? I’m not gonna get them, that’s for sure. Collywobbles,
yeah. Too right. Boy, do I feel green.
We’re supposed to be meeting them for
dinner but given the time of year, it’s earlier than that or no-one’d actually be
able to see us. Nevertheless dinner-dress has been ordained. Oh, ya got that
much? Yeah. Actually, Rosie’s own dress isn’t really a dinner dress at all: not
princess-length, cos D.D. ordained that it hadda cover the plaster, ya see. Oh,
look, I’ll spare ya the agony. Strapless deep blue silk—unlike the ones
that Brian Hendricks made her wear on Parkinson, does the man have a
fixation on pink, unquote. The waist is tightly confined (D.D.’s very words) by
a bright lemon-yellow silk sash lined in green, sort of folded effect. This
matches the touches of lemon and green in the humungous blue silk rose cunningly
fixed into the skirt at just the posish where it drapes over the plaster— Yeah.
Fifties, it may be. Daft, it is.
Right, can we go? And get it over with—you
said it!
Gee, apparently we can.
… And here we are! See, the thing is, D.D.
wanted to hire a whole club, like he does in London or Paris, but the locals
weren’t having a bar of that, no multi-megabucks need apply, thanks, we’re
Aussies and we never heard of that strange offshore habit, words to that
effect. So he got really pissed off—I mean really pissed off,
threatening to take the whole show, lock, stock and fake Singapore, back to
Pongo—and decided to hire the hotel’s conference room, or maybe ballroom—whatever.
But he couldn’t: they were all booked up—terribly overcome, if only he’d booked—
More shouting, as you can imagine. So then he got his PA, Gareth Parker, on the
job, and he found a different hotel, much nicer: why didn’t someone tell D.D. about
this lovely hotel BEFORE? He reckons it’s got taste, don’t look at me, I
wouldn’t know taste if it stood up and bit me. But Rupy and John and me nipped
off and sussed it out (one of us because he wanted to make sure he could get
Rosie inside the dump safely), so I can tell ya it’s got acres of fake Persian
carpets and fake William Morris wallpapers and whole rooms full of
chesterfields in real leather with only the antiquing fake—brown and green. And
myriads of them funny green-shaded brass lamps that I thought you only got on
TV shows of fake White Houses, y’know? Like that. So we’re having it in its
ballroom, fake Austrian Baroque ceiling and all. (Don’t look at me, that
was John’s contribution.) And next time, Gareth has been ordered to see
that D.D. is booked in here instead!
“I can see the paparazzi,” offers Rupy as
Aaron pulls in towards the curb. “Oops—no reception committee. Does that mean
we’re early or late?”
“Late,” says Rosie automatically, just as
Aaron’s looking at his watch and admitting: “A bit early, as a matter of fact.”
“Go round the block, Aaron,” suggests John
with a laugh in his voice.
We go round the block, where he can’t find
a park, so he keeps on driving, meanwhile Rupy has pointed out that someone
ought to ring Derry, but no-one’s volunteering, so John does it. Gee, D.D.
doesn’t dare to shout at him, fancy that. The word is, Euan’s running a
little late—Rosie snorts—and Derry and he will meet us outside the hotel
at—whenever.
Yeah, well, this is if Aaron doesn’t get us
lost, because he’s found a clutch of one-way streets and is starting to panic… You’re
right, Rupy, Rosie did oughta know where we are, she has lived in Sydney
most of her life. She admits she knows how to get from here to there on foot.
Aaron pulls in. Legally it’s a 10-minute zone. Fortunately there don’t seem to
be any cops in sight. There’s a map in the glove compartment… John thinks I
oughta know where we are. Er… Helpfully Rosie takes the map off me and—Nope,
holding it upside-down. John takes it off her. We are here, and we need
to get to… here. No-one’s contradicting him, that’s for sure. Take the
next left, Aaron. Aaron takes the next le—Oops, not a street after all, a sort
of laneway. Backs up—No, can’t: too much traffic. Waits. Backs—No, can’t: next
lot of traffic from the lights down that way is surging past. Backs—No, something’s
pulled in behind us. Rupy suggests he ought to blow his horn but is ordered to
shut up, unless he wants to drive. He doesn’t want to drive, so he shuts up.
Backs—No. Rosie suggests we oughta ring the RAA and is howled down by both Rupy
and Aaron. Backs—Phew! Backs out. (The limo is huge, has it sunk
in yet? Thank you!) Next left, goddit! Drive, drive… Is this the way?
SHUT UP, Rupy! Rupy shuts up… Um, maybe this isn’t the way, Aar—Shut UP, Rosie!
Rosie shuts up… Traffic lights where no traffic lights did oughta be: look, you
cretin, we’re lost again! (Don’t say it, what’s the point?)
Ring, ring, r— The mobile belongs to
Rosie—put it like this, Uncle Jerry forced it on her—but it is the one John
used before, so of course it’s D.D. Where ARE we? John says placidly we’re on
our way but we got trapped in traffic. He hangs up and reports drily: “Be
there.”
Gee, Aaron gives in at last and asks him if
he’d like to drive.
“He doesn’t know Syd—”
“Shut up, Rosie!” we all scream—except John,
of course—so she shuts up.
And John changes places with Aaron and
drives us down thataway and round this corner—ooh, yeah, so it is! Coolly he
double-parks and changes places with Aaron again.
“I’ll ring Derry,” says Rupy bravely now
all danger is past. No-one stops him so he grabs the mobile and tells D.D.
we’re just pulling in.
Which enables it all to go smooth as silk,
given that poor John rehearsed getting Rosie out of the car and into her
wheelchair with Aaron eight times.
Like, first Aaron nips out and grabs the
wheelchair from the boot and unfolds it (he practised that about seventeen
times), meanwhile John is getting out without haste and lifting Rosie out, and
the minute he’s stood up with her D.D. and Euan Keel appear from the hotel (musta
been lurking right behind the front door, right) and kiss-kiss (like before
he’s put her in the chair, this means D.D. and Keel don’t have to bend over
clumsi—Ya goddit. Yeah.) So John puts Rosie in the wheelchair and wheels—
“Now!” hisses Rupy fiercely. It’s our
cue—oh, ya got that, too?
“All right, keep ya hair on.”
So he gets out elegantly and helps me out
elegantly, and yeah, we did practise it, and it wasn’t at my suggestion.
“Dot, dear!” beams D.D., kissing the cheek,
ugh, yuck!—This gives Rupy and Euan Keel time to shake hands in a manly
fashion, geddit?—“Now, I don’t think you’ve met Euan Keel, have you? Euan, this
is Rosie’s little cousin,”—I will KILL the bugger!—“Dot Mallory.”
Shit. He’s a lot taller than I thought, why
didn’t that clot, Rosie, warn—
“So every word of it was true!” he says
with a soft laugh, holding out his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Dot!”
Feebly I put my hand in— Gee, his is warm as
anything, but not sweaty, and doesn’t mangle mine, just squeezes it very
gently, oh, God, why did I ever, ever, let myself in for— And I’ve gone red as
a beet, what a total—
“Dot! Say something!” hisses Rupy.
Huh? Shit! So I go, real sophisticated: “How
are you, Mr Keel?” in a sort of squeak. If ya know the Sydneyside accent you’ll
know it’s come out “Meester Kee-eel,” too. Shit.
He gives that soft laugh like what he does
on screen, only in person it’s five million times more overwhelming. “Och, call
me Euan! Would you care to take my arm, wee Dot?”
Gulp. I do know I’m supposed to, D.D. made
me rehearse it with one of the slaves. But he was shorter, miles shorter, and
he didn’t have those huge, deep-set brown eyes with the great long curly
lashes, or that wide, rather crooked mouth, or that voice with the Scotch purr—
He tucks my hand competently into his arm
and leads me gently towards the front door, the thought does float to the
surface of my mind, has he rehearsed it, too? Only mostly I’m not thinking at
all. He is gorgeous! Gorgeous! Eh? Oh! We turn and smile for the
paparazzi while they take a few more shots. “It oughta be Rosie, not me,” I
croak feebly.
He looks down and smiles right into my
eyes. “Dot, I beg to differ! Coming in?”
I suppose I am, yeah. If you say so, Euan.
That or flying to the moon—one or the other. Yeah. Every word Rosie said to me
about you was undoubtedly true, I know that, only just at the moment I can’t
recall a single one of them…
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