There was nothing quite like being around Hitchcock when his imagination was given free rein, and David lived for the excitement of moments like this. No one ever really believed the director when he said that the most rewarding part of any film for him was the preparation, but it was true: a meticulous planner, Hitch put all his energies into storyboarding a picture, developing the script and conceiving the special effects; after that, the filming itself was a matter of routine‚ and to say he sometimes looked bored was not an exaggeration. ‘Whose body is it?’ David asked, already drawn into the story.
‘An actress.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Yes, I know, there are moments when we all feel that way. But it doesn’t really matter who the body is – we won’t be using much of the rest of the story. There are a couple of characters worth keeping: a young girl, a wrongly accused man, a tinker. We’ll have to do some work on him.’
‘A tinker?’
‘Yes. A tramp, a gypsy, a gentleman of the road. Whatever you want to call them.’
‘You want to make a film about a wrongly accused tinker?’
David’s incredulous tone seemed to amuse Hitchcock. ‘No, it’s not the tinker who’s wrongly accused – it’s the love interest. But the tramp’s vital to the outcome, so we have to get him right. Do you remember how much research we did on
Blackmail
? How we plagued Scotland Yard to get the proper procedures for arresting and charging a man?’ David nodded. ‘Well, it paid off‚ and this has to be the same. I might even do it myself this time. I could find out what really happens when a tramp spends a night in a hostel.’ He must have seen the look of disbelief on David’s face, because he added‚ ‘I’m not joking, you know. It might be fun to be an actor for a bit. What do you think? We could do it together, perhaps.’
‘I think the genuine article might consider you a little too well fed to be convincing.’
Hitchcock roared with laughter. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course, and I’d never have the willpower to be credible.’ He walked David to the door, and it was a relief, suddenly, to be leaving. ‘Don’t tell Mr Turnbull quite everything, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And make sure Bella’s invited to dinner.’
David closed the door behind him and walked back to the darkness of the Bell Tower, where he could sit for a moment without anyone seeing him. He closed his eyes and the anger began to subside. When he opened them, he saw a trickle of blood on the pages of the book and realised that he had been clutching his keys so tightly that the metal had pierced his skin.
Josephine walked along the coastal path, a little way behind Marta and Lydia. The well-trodden route skirted the edge of a vast woodland area and was lined on the seaward side with sloe bushes, whose fruits were just starting to form. Marta was quiet, she noticed, while Lydia chatted easily about anything that came into her head, and Josephine found her presence unexpectedly reassuring: left alone, she and Marta had behaved like strangers afraid of getting to know each other, and the distance between them hurt her more than she had ever imagined it might.
She glanced through the rich green of rhododendron leaves into the sun-streaked darkness of the woods and marvelled at the way in which – even on one of the busiest weekends of the year – Portmeirion’s network of woodland paths and beautiful garden walks meant that there was always peace to be found somewhere. Idly, she picked a sloe from one of the bushes and crushed it between her fingers, glad of the time to think. Perhaps she had been wrong to avoid Marta so resolutely over the last few months. If they had seen each other more often, this paralysing shyness might never have developed, or would at least have been resolved by now. Letters were all very well but – passionate and eloquent though they were – they had allowed her to intellectualise her love for Marta, almost as if it were happening to someone else. But looking at her now, Josephine could no longer hide behind words and reasoning. Her longing for Marta was the most intensely physical thing she had ever known, and it left her feeling needy and exposed.
Marta chose that moment to turn and wait for her, and her timing was so uncanny that Josephine could almost believe that she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She felt herself blush, and Marta smiled. ‘Penny for them,’ she said, but the playful look in her eyes made it clear that she didn’t need to pay to know what Josephine was thinking. ‘And I’ll go higher if pushed.’
‘No prizes for guessing that one, surely,’ Lydia said, squeezing Josephine’s arm affectionately. ‘She’ll be plotting how best to tackle the Hitchcocks. Any suggestions?’
‘Do it quickly.’ Marta pointed up ahead, to where a small white terrier was standing belligerently in the middle of the path, barking fiercely. ‘I’m sure that’s one of their dogs.’ They cleared the trees and walked out onto the headland that formed Portmeirion’s most southerly point. ‘Yes, that’s Alma on the rock.’
Josephine shaded her eyes from the sun, and looked with interest at Alma Reville. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it was something far more daunting than this petite young redhead, dressed unconventionally in a perfectly tailored trouser suit. Alma had a camera, and was engrossed in taking a photograph across the water. Much to Josephine’s relief, the director’s wife seemed far more interested in the composition of her picture than in anything going on around her. ‘At least she hasn’t seen us,’ she said, turning to go. ‘If we head back now, we won’t have to speak to her.’
Lydia caught her arm. ‘Why on earth don’t you want to speak to her?’ she asked, making no effort to hide her astonishment.
Josephine knew her behaviour was absurd‚ and she didn’t need Lydia to point it out, particularly in front of Marta. ‘Because I’m not in the mood,’ she said stubbornly. ‘It’s far too hot to haggle‚ and‚ anyway, I don’t want to have to think about it today. Being forty’s bad enough,’ she added, trying to make light of her nerves. ‘At least let me deal with one crisis at a time.’
‘Don’t knock forty,’ Marta said, winking at her. ‘You know what they say.’
‘And if you pull this one off, it’ll be the best birthday present you’ve ever had.’ Lydia turned conspiratorially to Marta. ‘For God’s sake, darling, talk some sense into her.’
Josephine looked defiantly at Marta, daring her to take Lydia’s side. ‘We could just say hello,’ Marta suggested diplomatically. ‘You won’t be able to avoid it at dinner, and it might be less of an ordeal if you break the ice now, when she’s on her own.’
‘I suppose so,’ Josephine admitted, although her inclination was still to put off the moment for as long as possible.
‘And I honestly think you’ll like her. Anyway, from what I can see, you’re not bothered whether this happens or not so you’ve got nothing to lose. Let Alma do the running.’ Marta grinned. ‘Just sit back and enjoy being courted.’
‘Not everything in life works like that,’ Lydia muttered. ‘Sometimes a little effort goes a long way.’
‘And sometimes things will happen if they’re meant to,’ Marta countered.
‘I’m not sure your blasé outlook on life necessarily applies to the film world.’
‘Which you know so much about, of course.’
‘Oh, let’s get it over with,’ Josephine said hurriedly, keen to stifle an argument which was no longer about Alma Reville. In any case, the matter had already been taken out of her hands. Another dog – a spaniel – lay at Alma’s feet, offering nothing more energetic in the heat than a lazy wag of the tail; when it struggled to its feet, the movement seemed to be more noteworthy than all the terrier’s efforts at attention, and Alma turned to see what the fuss was about. She waved when she recognised Marta and came over to greet them, slinging the camera casually over her shoulder.
‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the middle of some shameless sightseeing,’ she said, and Josephine detected the faintest trace of a Midlands accent. ‘These gardens are magnificent. I don’t know whether to despair or be inspired; it puts my efforts to shame.’ She kissed Marta on both cheeks and waited for her to make the introductions. Her enthusiasm was attractive, and Josephine liked her instantly for her lack of affectation; most people in her position would feel obliged to play up to the role that her husband’s fame had forced on her, but there was a quiet self-confidence about Hitchcock’s wife which made that unnecessary and which, Josephine suspected, rarely looked to anyone else for approval.
‘Miss Tey – it’s lovely to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘And you, Miss Beaumont. My husband and I saw you in
Out of the Dark
at the Ambassadors earlier this year. I hoped I might have an opportunity to tell you how much we enjoyed it.’
Lydia looked pleased, if a little taken aback. ‘You’re part of quite a select band,’ she said dryly. ‘We only ran for a fortnight. But I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Yes, very much. And we loved
Richard of Bordeaux
, of course, but there’s nothing very select about that – half the country must have seen it.’
‘I’m surprised you go so often,’ Josephine said. ‘Now that the screen is the medium of the future.’
‘Ah, you read that interview.’ Alma looked approvingly at her, and conceded a smile. ‘Hitch and I have both been going to the theatre since we were children, and it’s a very hard habit to break once it’s in your blood. He has a professional interest in ringing its death knell, of course, but between you and me he sees more plays than films. In fact, he’s saying no to America at the moment on the basis of our daughter Patricia, our house at Shamley Green and the fact that we can nip across to the West End whenever we like – and not necessarily in that order.’ She called the terrier to heel, rescuing another couple from a barrage of barked abuse; the spaniel had never left her side, and Josephine noticed that both dogs seemed to adore her. ‘Jenky’s a bit affronted,’ she explained, bending down to put his lead on. ‘We were walking through the woods and stumbled on some sort of dog cemetery. Now he’s behaving as if I were trying to tell him something. But anyway, I hope you can see a future of some sort in film, Miss Tey, because we have some business to discuss.’
‘Of course. I’m here until Monday, so whenever you and your husband are free.’
‘Why don’t
we
talk first? If Hitch is involved, he’ll launch straight into camera shots and you and I will wonder why we’re there at all.’ Josephine agreed, hoping her relief didn’t show. ‘Good. Tonight would be best. He’s got something up his sleeve for the rest of the weekend, so I’ve no idea what will happen but it probably won’t be peaceful. Shall we have a cocktail before dinner? I’ll meet you in the hotel at six.’ Without waiting for a reply, Alma turned to Marta and Lydia, and Josephine wondered if the rest of the negotiations were going to be any more mutual. ‘And I’ll see you both later, I hope. Perhaps you’d all like to join us for coffee? You never know, we might have a deal to celebrate by then.’
She turned and walked back in the direction of the hotel, and Marta quickly squeezed Josephine’s hand. ‘Did you tell her I was dreading this?’ Josephine asked. ‘I didn’t expect her to be quite so gentle with me.’
‘I don’t know her well enough for that, but there was no need for me to say anything. She hates people as much as you do.’
‘I don’t hate people,’ Josephine said indignantly. ‘I just . . .’
‘Prefer it when they’re not around.’ Lydia finished the sentence for her, and Josephine laughed.
‘Yes, something like that.’
‘Actually, that’s not fair on Alma either,’ Marta said as they headed back to the village. ‘I’ve heard she’s a fabulous host, but she chooses her friends very carefully – and his. I suppose she has to.’
‘It should be an interesting evening,’ Josephine said, surprised to find herself looking forward to it.
‘Yes, although I think someone might have to put a muzzle on Ronnie,’ Lydia said. ‘Whatever progress you make with Alma could all be undone the first time she opens her mouth.’
‘That’s a head-to-head I’d pay to see.’ The path narrowed slightly, and Josephine allowed the other two to go first. ‘Alma’s younger than I expected,’ she added. ‘When people have the sort of reputation that the Hitchcocks have got, you automatically expect them to be older than you. It’s quite sobering when it turns out to be talent rather than experience.’
‘Get used to it, darling,’ Lydia said with feeling. ‘It’s all downhill from here.’
An experiment in fear and guilt, he had called it, but an exercise in control would have been more accurate. Staging a joke, like making a film, was a way of holding on to the power, and Hitchcock had discovered long ago that the manipulation involved in both helped him to forget his own anxieties and doubts. It suited him if people thought him childish, if they underestimated him as a result; behind the grinning schoolboy, there was someone smart enough to realise that people were most truly themselves when they were disoriented, frightened, exposed – and he had important decisions to make. There had never been a more important time to know whom to trust.
He had lost track of how many times people asked him if he enjoyed watching his own films. The answer was always the same: his work was laid out scene by scene in his mind, and he had no need to go to a cinema to see it. It had been the same for as long as he could remember: his past, like his career, was made up of pictures; memories were visual rather than verbal, like a very young child’s. The older he got, the more fervently he wished he could storyboard his future, plan it out day by day and get rid of this paralysing fear that his life was in someone else’s hands. By going to America, he knew he would be setting in motion something that was bigger than he was, and it terrified him.
Still, he would do it for Alma. Everything he did, he did for that moment when they went home together in the evening and he could see the pride in her eyes, another memory for their old age. It was the best of who he was, the only reason for doing anything. Hitchcock got up from the bed and walked over to the balcony, impatient for Alma to come back. It was never the same without her. He hated being alone.