HANDMAID TO FAME

Wairarapa Times-Age, 14 February 1939, Page 10

HANDMAID TO FAME

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT.

BY

BERTA RUCK.

CHAPTER VII.

“Film history, that’s what we made today,” Carps told his wife in Camden Town, when he relayed to her the story of that historic rumpus on the set of “Venus Rises,” where, during rehearsal, the Star had slapped her co-Star’s face. Next day it appeared that “film history” of another kind had been made on the same date. The first that Terry Grey, continuitygirl, knew about that was when she was in the bus going to work. On the front page she saw, “FILM STUDIO BURNT TO THE GROUND.” The headlines added: “BIG BLAZE AT THE MAURUS FILM STUDIOS.” Horrified, she read the details. The fire, it seemed, had started at 12 o'clock at night —just when she had been coming away from Aidershot with “Clive of India.” The storm which had flooded Tattoo Arena and had drenched uniforms, troops, seats and spectators alike, was responsible for the flash of lightning which had struck the roof of the place in which Flower Armitage and Vai Lavery had been dancing and making screen love (love-scene that had degenerated into a brawl) that very afternoon. Terry got out at the nearest busstop; she rushed to the nearest telephone box. She rang up Lavery’s rooms at the Temple. She got her friend the butler. “Good morning, Simmons. I’ve justseen about this frightful affair. May I speak to Mr Lavery?” Discreet voice of Simmons. “Good morning, Miss. Terrible, is it not ” “Yes, yes. What a mercy there was no loss of life, Simmonds. But may I speak to Mr Lavery about what he wishes hie to do. I suppose I am to come to the Temple? There will be nothing doing at the Studios?” She visualised black, charred ruins, a mass of debris, soaked smoking, in the pause before Simmonds spoke again. “Mr Lavery is not yet up, Miss. The fact is, well, he hasn’t yet heard about the catastrophe. He came in very late last night, Miss. I haven’t liked to wake him.” “Isn’t he well?”

“Oh, yes,- Miss. He’ll •be all right. But I think he was very much worried at what occurred at the studios not the fire. He appears to have had . a very worrying day.” “I’ll say he had,” thought Terry, as there flashed back upon her memory the lovely temper-struck face of Flower Armitage screaming “the brute! He kicked me,” followed by the face of Vai himself, tight-lipped, restrained with an effort. “You’re sure Simmonds, that he's not ill?” “Oh no, Madame. He’s not ill. Only I do think it would perhaps be better if you didn’t come round this morning if you will tell me where I can reach you by telephone. Terry decided to go back to hei rooms, gave Simmonds the telephone number, and hung up. The time of waiting, she put in as women do put in these times. She darned some stockings. Turned out a drawer. Began a letter’ to Auntie which Auntie should receive at Bombay, then put it away. She felt she had nothing to say to that once familiar landmark of her life. Incredibly, their lives had been shifted since that morning of her twenty-seventh birthday when Terry had got up saying, "I shall just go on playing second-fiddle to everybody. Nothing will ever happen.” Just to think of the things that had happened! Here was Auntie, to judge from her letters, enjoying, herself most amazingly. The centre of a group of people whose very names had been unknown to her all thes years. These were now her friends. As for Terry, up to now an insignificant unit in a family, that family was right off her horizon. And the whole of Terry’s life was what? Bound up in the doings of a film-star, a completely un-filmish, but still a film-star. Set against the background—of what lunatic happenings? Now the background —or at least one part of it was utterly destroyed. Terry, at a completely loose end because she had a morning off from her job of handmaiden. To think that that very morning when she was dressing, she had been planning what to do when she gave in her notice. She had intended to tell Vai Lavery that she thought she had better look lor a job in the country, town-life had been getting too much for her. Then she had been going to call on Philip, her cousin and agent, to tell him she thought the film-industry was altogether too exciting, 100 much doing, couldn't he find her another Member of Parliament? More her pace. But now she knew she could novel bear to give up this other. When wou d she hear what she was supposed to do next? Ah! The telephone.

But it was only “Clive of India” to say he had rung up Mr Lavery's room in the Temple and had been told by the butler that Miss Grey was not there that morning. “So, if you have a day oft. Teuy. What’about my coming out and taking you for a drive into the country? The New Forest? Somewhere out theie. Get a spot of fresh air. Blow the cobwebs away.” , Even in her anxiety Terry thoug -Why should men always take it oi granted that women are covered wit cobwebs until a man .condescends to come and take her out m a car. As

there were any time in a woman's life to let cobwebs form!”

But while she was thinking this, she was answering politely, “I'm terribly sorry. Clive. But I have to stand by. Mr' Lavery will want me this afternoon probably. I can't play truant, just because the studio's burnt to the ground. I said they could find me here.

“Oh, shocking waste of a fine day, isn’t it? Never mind! I’ve got something rather special I wanted to ask you. However, never mind! When are you off duty?” “In the film industry one never knows,” Terry called back. “Realise that when they are making a picture the hours for some of us mean dawn 'to dusk and dusk to crack of dawn!” “Well, you can’t be making a picture now,” argued the brisk, cordial, soldierly voice of Clive. “Picture's gone phut! I’ve been reading about it in the early editions. The picture was 'Venus Rises,’ wasn’t it? With that rather pretty young woman, Flower Armitage, and your young man. Papers say many thousand pounds worth of costumes and scenery for that picture utterly destroyed.” ‘They rebuild everything, go on with everything.” “Do they, now! Well, don't tell me they will be going on tonight at 6.30! I’ll call for you, Terry; run you out to dinner on the river somewhere. You’ll like that after moping indoors all day.” “I’m not moping, thank you, Clive.” “I can hear by your voice that you're a bit under the weather. No wonder! It’s no life for a girl,” Clive went on. “Anyhow, see you at seven! So long!” Terry had thought, “He won’t see me at'seven if I'm rung from the Temple and wanted.” She was rung up by Simmonds at three o’clock that afternoon to say that Mr Lavery had left word that Miss Grey was not to trouble to come round that day, there would be nothing for her to do.

Curiously, Terry felt quite depressed by the let-off. • ( “He is all right, Simmonds?” “Oh yes, Miss . He’s just gone out. He got up about an hour ago, had his lunch —well, he just snatched something and went out to Miss Armitage’s hotel." “Simmonds. What is it? You do sound as though something was the matter.” “No, Miss. I assure you. ‘l'd tell you if there was. It’s only well —I think he’s upset. You know what gentlemen are.” Terry did not see what that had to do with the text. She became even more worried. “I shall come in tomorrow, then, at my usual time. And see what there is for me to do." She felt quite absurdly anxious that everything should be usual. “It's just," she told herself, “because of the fire. Having the place burnt to the ground —having the place you work in every day reduced to a heap of coalblack ash —well! Isn’t it enough to make you feel as if your world was i rocking. I hate rocking worlds. I want to go back to my usual job.” For she had by now forgotten her determination to give in her notice to change that job herself. “I'll see you tomorrow," she said to Simmonds. “Now, I suppose, I had better make myself tidy for Clive. Out with Clive two evenings running. Is he developing into permanency? More than that. It appeared that evening, out at din>ner, that Clive wanted very firmly to make something a permanency. That was what he had taken Terry out to talk to her about. He wanted to marry her! “Why not?” was Major Clive’s reply to Terry’s answer that she “thought it extraordinarily sweet of him, but she didn’t want to marry at all, thank you.” Over a little table with pink lights, roses and a distant glimpse of shimmering reflections in the River, with every prospect pleasing with a landscape steeped in Romance, stars, distant music from the wireless (where it sounded at its utter best at a distance and on the water), with everything set for a proposal, the proposal took place. Further, it was the first time in her life that anyone ever had proposed to Terry Grey, second fiddle to so many couples. Should she not have been thrilled? The unappreciative girl was unstirred. All the usual things were said on both sides. . “Clive, I really am flattered—l do really thing this is so sweet of you—l like you so much—l appreciate the honour you've done me—but please, please. PLEASE don't say any more about it—l don't want to be married—" -That," she was told, “is purelj’ absurd. Every normal young woman wants to be married. Taking a post — what is it? Simply filling in time until the right job comes along—getting married. Woman's sphere. The natural thing. A home of her own to look after. Children. Man to look after her.” “Yes, I daresay. For nine girls out of ten, Clive. But I'm not like that. You see, I've done the other for so long. I started so early, with poor old Sir William. The post with him got me into this business-girl's groove •■l'll get you out of it. I quie agree you've been going on like this too long. I said so, to Walter, the other night. Your father thought it would be an excellent thing. So did his wife. Quite a sensible little woman, Sylvia; much more in her than one had been led to suppose,” Clive said. "I told them ] both I was going to settle it up with . you as soon as might be.” ' (To be Continued.)