My Week with Marilyn (8 page)

‘No problem at all, Mr Bushell,' said Roger. ‘I've just come over to take Colin out to lunch.'

‘Now, Roger, you're not taking him back to Miss Monroe's house, are you?' said Tony severely. ‘That would be very much frowned on indeed.'

‘Definitely not,' said Roger. ‘I'm not here to take Colin back to Miss Monroe's house. I promise you that.'

‘Oh well, that's all right, then. Just for a moment I thought she might have sent you over to collect him.'

‘No,' said Roger. ‘No, she didn't. Colin, why don't you hop in? It's time we were off.'

‘Where to, Roger?' I asked, climbing into the front seat. ‘Where on earth are we going?'

‘Never you mind. Just shut the door, would you?' He scrunched the Wolsey into first gear.

Tony peered nosily through the rear window, but we were already on the move.

‘Wait a minute! What's under that rug in the back seat? I thought I saw it move.'

‘That's my little dog, sir,' said Roger over his shoulder. ‘We're going to take her for a walk in Windsor Great Park.'

We lurched off round the corner of the drive, leaving Tony standing on the lawn scratching his head.

‘Why have you left Miss Monroe alone, Roger?' I asked. ‘I thought I told you never to do so.'

‘Surpri-hise!'

Marilyn's blonde head suddenly erupted in the rear-view mirror like a jack-in-a-box, giving me partial heart failure.

‘Marilyn! What on earth are you doing here?'

Peals of giggles. ‘Well, that's better. It's “Marilyn” at last. I'm fed up with that “Miss Monroe” stuff. It sounds so pompous. And anyway, I don't want to be Miss Monroe today. I just want to be me. Roger and I thought we'd come over and give you a surprise. Aren't you pleased to see me?'

‘Of course, I'm thrilled to bits. It's just that yesterday, er, everyone seemed very cross that I'd gone over to Parkside at all, and that I was interfering with your life and the film and all that.'

‘Oh, nonsense,' said Marilyn. ‘Don't you take any notice of those old spoilsports. It's a lovely summer day, and Roger and I decided to go out for an adventure, didn't we, Roger?'

‘Hmm,' said Roger. He slowed the car to a halt, with two wheels on the grass verge. ‘Now, where are we going?'

I swivelled round and stared into Marilyn's very naughty eyes.

‘Yes, but Milton said that if I ever spoke to you again he would have me sacked and banned from the studio.'

Marilyn frowned. ‘I used to have another coach before Paula. You wouldn't believe how often she was banned from the set. But she never went. No one can sack you, Colin – except me, of course.' Another giggle. ‘You're quite safe.'

‘What the . . . ?'

Unheard by us, Tony had come padding down the drive to investigate, and was now staring into the back seat, his face contorted with rage.

Marilyn screamed and buried herself under the rug. Roger let out the clutch with a jolt, and the car flapped off again like an old black crow.

‘Wait!' shouted Tony. ‘Colin! I want a word with you!' But this time Roger's police training stood him in good stead. No one was going to kidnap Marilyn Monroe while he was at the wheel, not even Mr Bushell.

‘Phew! That was a close one.' Marilyn emerged from the rug looking even more dishevelled and cheeky than before. ‘Do you think he saw me?'

‘I'm quite sure he did,' I said. ‘He'll be on the phone to Sir Laurence already.'

‘Ooh. What do you think Sir Laurence will say?'

‘He'll think it over for a minute, and then he'll laugh out loud and tell Tony not to tell anyone else, to keep it a secret.'

‘You know Sir Laurence pretty well, don't you, Colin?'

‘Yes, I do, and he's a great man. But I realise that he probably doesn't look like one to you at the moment.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that. He's just so terribly severe. He treats me like a schoolgirl, not an actress.'

‘That's just his manner. He can see you're an actress every time he looks at the previous day's film. We all can.'

‘I hate to interrupt,' said Roger, ‘but where are we going?'

‘Anywhere,' said Marilyn. ‘It's Saturday, and I want to be free. How about that Windsor Park you mentioned to Mr Bushell? Do you think he'll follow us and spy? Hey, it doesn't matter. We've got Roger. We can go wherever we want.'

‘Windsor Great Park it is, then,' said Roger. A few minutes later he swung the car down a long avenue of trees. ‘It's right here.'

Soon we reached a pair of tall iron gates with a little gatehouse beside them. Roger stopped, got out and knocked. A man came to the door and Roger chatted to him for a few moments, then showed him what I presume was some sort of pass.

‘I don't like being on my own in the back,' said Marilyn. ‘I feel
like the Queen. Come and join me.' I squashed into the Wolsey's less than commodious rear seat beside her. ‘That's it. You said you weren't scared of me. Snuggle up. This is fun.'

Roger got back behind the wheel, and sighed at the now vacant front seat beside him as the man opened the gates.

‘We're off to see Her Majesty now,' he said. ‘You two just behave yourselves in the back seat.'

‘Ooh,' said Marilyn, ‘Mr Bushell can't follow us here.' And she gave my arm a squeeze.

This was all going much too fast for me. I felt as if I was the one who had been kidnapped. I mean, it was incredibly exhilarating to be in the back seat of a smelly black Wolsey with Marilyn Monroe, speeding through the back entrance to Windsor Castle – but what would happen next? I wasn't even wearing a jacket. Where could we go? What could I do? After this, how could I go back to working on the film as third assistant director? All the normal, everyday rules seemed to have been chucked out of the window. Roger was the only sensible person in Marilyn's whole entourage, and now he seemed to be in on some sort of plot. I could probably be sued for breach of contract, or alienation of affection, or something. Maybe the studio would have me bumped off. I was responsible, they would say, for the abduction of their million-dollar film star, the most famous woman in the world. What if we crashed and she was killed?

‘Stop the car, Roger,' I said. ‘Let 's get out and think. There's no one around. Let's have a little stroll in the fresh air.'

Roger drew in to the side of the road and Marilyn and I got out. She still had hold of my arm, I noticed.

‘I'll stay here on guard,' said Roger. ‘Why don't you two walk down to that little stream and cool off?'

‘Great idea,' said Marilyn, releasing her grip and bending down to pull off her shoes. She was wearing a short white wool dress instead of her usual trousers, and she presented, as she must well have been aware, an extremely attractive rear end.

‘Come on, Colin.' She swayed off down the slope, her bare feet crinkling the grass. ‘Don't be stuffy. Take your shoes off. It's great.'

By the time we reached the stream, we were out of breath and very hot, and it seemed a good idea to wade straight in. ‘I think this is the most lovely thing I've ever felt in my life,' said Marilyn, serious at last. ‘What do you think, Colin? Can't you feel it?' She held out both her hands and grasped mine. ‘I feel so alive. For the first time I feel like I was part of nature. Can't you feel it, Colin? I'm sure you can feel it too.'

Frankly, I felt as if I was going to drown, although the water was only two inches deep.

‘I can feel it, Marilyn,' I mumbled.

But she wasn't listening to me.

‘Why do I take all those pills? Why do I worry about what all those men think? Why do I let myself get pushed around? This is how I ought to feel, every day of my life. This is the real me . . . isn't it, Colin?'

My feet had grown cold by now, and I led her to the bank and sat down.

‘No, Marilyn. Alas, it's not the real you. It's just a beautiful, beautiful illusion. You are a star. A great star.' I was beginning to sound like Paula Strasberg, but it was true. ‘You can't escape that. You have to perform. Millions of people love you and admire you. You can't ignore them. You can't run away. Let's just have a super fun day, a day that we will never forget, and then we must go back to real life.'

‘Only one day?'

‘Well . . . perhaps a weekend?'

‘Or a week?'

‘We'll see.'

Marilyn brightened. ‘OK. So how shall we spend our day?'

‘Let's go to Windsor Castle. Her Majesty might be in. Then we could go across to my old school, Eton College. There's a little tea shop where they give you the most scrumptious food. Then maybe we could have a swim in the river before we go home.'

‘That sounds great. Let's go. Do you think Roger will mind if we treat him like a chauffeur?'

I gazed into her eyes. ‘He'd do anything for you, Marilyn, as you know.'

Roger obviously knew the road to Windsor Castle well. ‘I used to work here,' he said. ‘Looking after the Family.'

He parked on the slope leading to the main gate and marched up to the guardhouse, with Marilyn and me a few steps behind. He was obviously glad to be back in charge.

There were two large uniformed policemen blocking the archway, and although they did not know Roger personally, it was quite clear that like recognised like at about twenty feet.

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Smith,' said Roger. ‘I'm escorting this lady and gentleman for the day, and they wish to see round the castle. Is there any way in which you can assist?'

‘Do they know anyone here, sir? We need to write down a contact name in the book. Otherwise one of us would need to be with them at all times, and they might not want that, sir.'

Marilyn was clutching my hand in a rather desperate fashion, and I sensed that she was scared stiff that they would recognise her – and at the same time terrified that they would not.

‘My godfather works here,' I said. ‘I used to visit him quite often when I was at school. He's the librarian. He's called Sir Owen Morshead. Maybe you could call him.'

Eyebrows shot up all round. I was wearing a white shirt, grey flannel trousers and sandals, not exactly the dress of a typical castle visitor. We all went inside the guardhouse, and the policeman dialled a number.

‘Sir Owen? Main gate here, sir. I have a young gentleman, name of – ?'

‘Clark. Colin Clark.'

‘Name of Clark here, sir, would like a word with you, sir.' He handed the phone to me.

‘Colin, is that you? What are you doing here?' Owen Morshead
is an eccentric scholar with a wonderful sense of humour. He has an equally delightful wife called Paquita, and together they are like a breath of fresh air in royal circles.

‘I'm working on a film nearby, and I thought I would bring my, er, friend, my lady friend' – I grinned at Marilyn – ‘over for you to meet her.'

‘How delightful,' said Owen. ‘I'm expecting some visitors in a short time, so it would be nice if you could come right now. Do bring her up at once. Just follow the road up the hill until you see another policeman outside my door. He'll direct you.'

‘I think I'll just wait at the gate,' said Roger. ‘You'll be safe enough in the castle, Miss Monroe.'

‘Ssh!' said Marilyn with a broad wink and a wiggle, which made the two policemen's eyes pop out, and off we set.

News spreads fast, and at the next police post three or four men came tumbling out to see if it was true. In fact they were so intent on gazing at my ‘lady friend' that I had to push them out of the way so that we could get through the library door.

Once inside we were in another world. Sir Owen Morshead did not look as if he had ever been to the cinema in his life.

‘How charming, how charming. You are pretty, my dear. I'm sure you and Colin have so much in common. Well, this is my humble den.' His arm swept round the Royal Library, room after room lined with books and pictures. The tables were covered with books, all the chairs had books piled on top of them, and there were even stacks of books on the floor.

Owen gave a hoot of laughter. ‘It looks rather dull and dusty, doesn't it?' he said, but Marilyn was in awe.

‘Oh, Sir Owen' – you never quite knew whether she would remember a name or not – ‘I love books,' she said in a childlike whisper. ‘Have you read them all?'

‘Luckily one doesn't have to do that.' Owen was enjoying himself immensely. ‘A lot of them just have pictures.' He took a large portfolio from a shelf and opened it. ‘These are all by an artist called Holbein.'

‘Ooh, what a beautiful lady,' said Marilyn, looking over his shoulder. ‘Who is she?'

‘She was the daughter of one of the King's courtiers, four hundred years ago.'

‘Imagine, four hundred years ago, and she still looks great. Gee. How many of these have you got?'

‘Eighty-nine. And these,' said Owen, taking out another folder of drawings, ‘are all by an Italian artist called Leonardo da Vinci.'

‘Wait a minute!' cried Marilyn. ‘I've heard of him.' You never knew with Marilyn. ‘Didn't he paint that picture of the lady with the funny smile? You know the one I mean, Colin.'

‘The
Mona Lisa.
'

‘Yeah, that's her. Have you got that here too?'

‘Alas, no,' said Owen, sighing. ‘That one got away. But enough of all this art. I mustn't bore you with my hobby.'

‘You aren't boring me, Sir Owen,' whispered Marilyn. ‘I love it here. I could sit here for hours.'