"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 December 1940, Page 10

"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

Phyllis Hambledon.

(Author of “Youth the Helm.”)

CHAPTER VII. (Continued i. “I say them because they’re true. By the way I’ve brough him the usual offering’ in the shaps of flowers and what not.” “It’s sweet of you. Everybody .is good to us, except Dr. Frith the ‘locum.’ Of all idle, conceited young men! How any of the patients stand him, I can’t think.” She looked peaked and anxious. Malcolm noted and marked the look. “I haven’t come altogether on a visit of sympathy and condolence,” he said. “I’ve come partly to ask you a favour. The fact is. I’ve been having a lot of trouble with Dear Little Plain Girl — the picture I talked to you about in the summer. No, I’m not asking you to take the part,” he added quickly, seeing her face. “But Freyne, the director you know, is beginning to get cold feet about it, thinks it can’t be done, that you could never get the Dear Plain Little Girl idea over. The public still expect a pretty heroine, he says. I don’t agree. I believe a lot of folk like myself, are sick of pretty people. Well, what I wanted to say is, could you spare a Sunday afternoon to read over the part with him, at his house. Then a ten pound fee attached, by the way.” “I haven’t seen the script,” said Jill. ‘l’ll leave it with you,” said Malcolm. The ten pounds appealed to Jill more than she would have liked to have said to Malcolm. Ten pounds would pay a week of the odious Dr. Frith. She read the script that afternoon, while Oliver was sleeping. She saw its possibilities at once. Malcolm must have a wonderfully understanding mind, she thought, to be able to write so tenderly, of the pathos and of the charmof plainness. It was a wonderful part of somebody; there was no doubt about it. But it could equally well be ruined. The upshot of it was she left Oliver with Miss Croft on the following Sunday afternoon, and drove with Malcolm to Mr. Freyne’s sumptuous and expensive riverside house. He had brought it from an earl, and had spent thousands upon it. His vast panelled drawingroom was furnished in white and pale blue, with priceless Chinese rugs, and an aviary full of budgerigars at the extreme end of it. The birds kept up a continuous soft twitter during the reading of the scenario-—like the music off, said Jill. “You can’t think how delighted we are to see you again, Miss Ferrand,” said John Freyne, as he took her hand.By this time Jill was so used to being Mrs. Vereker, that the sound of her

maiden name gave her a pleasant, unaccustomed feeling. It was rather good to be among film people again, to be petted, made much of, to be given marvellous China tea, and caviare sandwiches. She did not realise how sick she had grown of the iodine atmosphere as Oliver had wont to term it, how nice sybaritism could be, after plain bread and butter. “Now if you’re ready, Miss Ferrand,” said Freyne ,“I will read the women's, parts, and Trant here will take the men’s. We’ll begin at page eight. Lord Bertie has just said: ‘There should be a national pension scheme for a girl as plain as she is.’ You’ve been making yourself smart for the party. You overhear. At first you feel like running, away. Then the two men realise that you have overheard. Consternation on their part. Now, you ” “Or a salary for adding to the gaiety of nations, Bertie,” read Jill happily. “There’s one thing about me, I’m the only girl, whom all others are unfailingly kind to!” “ ‘Darling Susan, we all love you,’ " read Freyne. The play went on. And through it all, Jill’s own unquenchable good temper and humour made themselves manifest. In writing Dear Little Plain Girl, Malcolm had indeed thought of Jill. To her it came so easily; she had to say the words that she would have said them. And the play, which had halted before, was carried along by her vitality. It came to life.

“It’s charming,” said Jill, when the last line had been spoken. “Charming!” “Yes,’ it’s charming,” said Freyne. “You made it so.” “It had to be,” said Jill. ‘lt was the way it was written.” “It was only you, who found out the way it was written,’ said John Freyne. “Trant owes you a debt of gratitude. But it makes one thing increasingly evident. You’d know what that was, if you’d heard the other women trying their hands at it. You’ll have to play it. There’s nobody else in England can do it.” “But I couldn’t,” said Jill. “I couldn’t!”'

“I’d pay you a thousand pounds when the picture was completed,” said Freyen quietly. “One thousand pounds.” She had left the picture for ever, but the mention of the sum dazzled her. Viva, of course, would sniff at a sum like that. But one thousand pounds to Jill was a colossal figure. Even though she knew that where films were concerned, there was nothing terribly generous about it. But the picture wouldn’t take so terribly long to shoot djither. There were some outdoor scenes cer--tainly, but most of them were in the same set. It was a simple play, and by its very simplicity, effective. One One thousand pounds. But Oliver was not properly convalescent yet. He would need her for months and months. “You coud have quite a good bit,' in advance,” said Freyne, who had been watching her closely Jill shook her head. “Nothing ddoing, I’m afraid. I’ve a sick husband at present. I’m a married woman, M. Freyne.” “Married women have been known to help their husbands by earning money,” said Freyne. ‘‘Not Oliver's wife.” said Jill quietly. “Oh, I’d do it if I could. It's a wizard

Oliver had always hated the films, part. I’d do it for you, Malcolm.” and, since his illness, this hatred had increased. He put down Viva’s conduct to their influence. It pleased him now in his weakness to thing that she might have been perfect, had not the glamour of the cinema destroyed her. And Jill did not tell him that, long, before the films had taken Viva, she had been precisely as she was now, self-seeking, hard as nails, ambitious, luxury loving, that she had been born with what might be called the film-star complex. “Well, we’ll have to look round for somebody else,” said Freyne, with a sigh. “And until we find her, Dear Little Plain Girl will have to be docketed.” “I’m so sorry,” said Jill, pitifully. ‘Thats all right. Here’s a cheque for the afternoon, at any rate.” Jill put the cheque into her handbag. Even ten pounds she thought, gave her a grand and glorious feeling. But Freyne was, not unnaturally annoyed. Secretly both he and Trant had counted on Jill taking the part, when she realised how well it fitted her. He wondered if she were standing out for a higher price, then decided that she wasn’t. She had a streak of genius, he thought. Never once in the scenaria reading, had she suggested that her heroine was anything nut plain, never once had she been less than adorable. Every plain girl in every auditorium will visualise herself in that part, thought Freyne. They had cocktails before she left, and all the doings that go with expensive cocktails: inches of celery dusted with grated cheese, shrimps on sticks, sausages ditto, potato crisps, spread with foie gras. “I’ve eaten as much as I usually eat in a day,” said Jill quite frankly, as she buttoned Viva’s hand-ed-down coat around her, as she prepared to go out to Malcolm’s car. The two men laughed. Freyen relaxed his gloomy pessimism. “Well, it’s been a pleasant Sunday afternoon, at any rate.”

“It’s a pleasant Sunday evening, too,” said Jill, a little later, driving under a clear and starlit sky. Malcolm’s car ran with heavenly smoothness. It was so comfortable Malcolm himself, so alaltogether nice and satisfactory. “Don’t drive too quickly, Malcolm,” she said “I haven’t been out of the house for days. Don’t drive too slowly either. Oliver may want me.” “Oliver may want you —that’s the whole slogan of your life, now isn’t it?” said Malcolm bitterly. “I’m married to him,” said Jill simply-

“That’s no reason nowadays for your making a doormat of yourself for him,” said Malcolm violently. “He doesn’t appreciate you and that’s a fact. Viva may be a star, but she'll never be an actress, in spite of the grooming she's had, in spite of the fact that she’s never done a thing since she has grown up, unconnected with the film world. You have the making of a real comedienne, and comediennes are rare. And, instead, you wash bottles and make up dope for kids with tummy-aches!” Jill laughed. The laugh was too much for Malcolm. He stopped the car.

“All right,” he said. “Laugh, but I love you! You won’t believe me, when I say I’ve never said that to a woman before, but it’s true. Oh, I’ve played about, but I thought I was hard-boiled. It's you who had to get me. And you’ve tied yourself to a man who doesn't even realise what he’s got, who hasn’t even the sense to be jealous, when you’re out like this, in a car with me!” “Oh, Malcolm, isn’t it all just mouldy?” said Jill. Her hand found his, and held it fast. He clutched hers in return. So they sat, two miserables, beneath a starry sky. When ne kissed her, she kissed him back again, simply, sympathetically. It was mouldy for him, as it was mouldy for her. Then they drove home again, and he left her at her door.

“Do you often let your wife go out with Malcolm Trant, Oliver?” Viva was saying. ' She had heard in the studios, of the scenario reading that would take place that afternoon. She knew that Oliver would be alone. She had arrived when Miss Croft was taking her Sunday nap. Mrs. O’Flynn brought Oliver a message that Miss Viva Ferrand had come to have tea with him, goggling a little,' because her Arthur collected pictures of Viva, while her Ethel collected Joan Crawford. There’ll be no holding our Ethel, when. she hears this, she thought. She decided to slip along home, and fetch her. so that she could ask for Miss Ferrand’s autograph. “Do you always let your wife go out with Malcolm Trant?” “Why shouldn’t I?” said Oliver. “Jill’s had a pretty dull time lately. I’m glad she’s got an afternoon off for a , change. “Even with Malcolm Trant? said Viva. “He’s a decent chap," said Oliver. “Dear Oliver, how sweet and simple you are,” said Viva. “I don’t know what you are insinuating,” said Oliver angrily. “Nothing whatever," said Viva. “Bu‘ when Jill was my little sister, and not your wife, I didn’t let a man like Malcolm Trant take her out.” “Did he want to?” asked Oliver. “Oh. he’s always had a crush on her." said Viva. “Roues like Malcolm always go for dewy innocence. “I’d trust Jill anywhere." said Oliver. “But of course,” said Viva, opening her eyes widely. “Did I evei say that you shouldn’t?”

(To be Continued).