House of Silence (2 page)

He gasped. ‘My, that was tactful! I thought
you wardrobe ladies were meant to be the soul of discretion,
masking the numbers on your tape measure with a carefully placed
thumb to avoid damaging fragile egos.’

‘Oh yes, we do that for
stars
. And
some of us will do it for nobodies. We don’t do it for people who
address us as pieces of furniture. We’re funny that way.’

‘Sorry, I was a bit stressed. I’ll address
you as anything you like - your majesty - if you’ll fix me up. You
see, if they ever finish with those bloody lights, we get to shoot
the one and only scene in which I have to do some acting, as
opposed to propping up fireplaces. Decoratively. So I’d like to
look my best. Please.
Ma’am
.’

‘I see.’ She produced a small tin from the
breast pocket of her linen shirt and extracted a safety pin. ‘Stand
still.
Very
still.’ She knelt in front of him and slipped
her hand inside the waistband of his breeches.

He looked down, bemused, at the top of her
shining dark head, now on a level with his crotch. ‘Well, let’s
hope there are no paparazzi behind me, lurking in the shrubbery
with a telephoto lens. I can see the headline now...
Blow-job in
the bushes: BBC’s desperate attempt to boost ratings with Regency
sex romp
.’

Unperturbed, she stood up and examined her
handiwork. ‘OK, you’re done. You won’t be able to pee in a hurry,
though.’

‘
Pee?
My dear, we have catheters sewn
into our breeches, didn’t you know?’ He noted with satisfaction
that she was now avoiding his eye in an attempt not to smile. The
corners of her mouth twitched as she let the curtain of her hair
fall forward to hide her face. He pressed home his advantage.
‘What’s your name - er, your royal highness?’

‘Gwen Rowland.’

‘Well, Gwen, I’ll save you the embarrassment
of admitting you haven’t the faintest idea who I am. Don’t worry,
you’re not the only one. The director’s either forgotten my name or
doesn’t recognise me in costume.’

‘Could be all the weight you’ve put on, I
suppose.’

The eyes that now met his conveyed both
challenge and mischief. From a distance, he’d thought she hadn’t
looked all that attractive, but at close quarters the reluctant
curve of that pretty mouth, the provocation in those blue eyes
meant he was enjoying this more than he’d expected. ‘You know, I
like
you, Gwen, I really do. I suppose it would be too much
to hope the feeling was mutual?’

She shook her head. ‘Far too much. But I
might like you better if I knew your name.’

‘I doubt it. My name’s Alfie. Alfie Donovan.
I’m a nobody. Playing a nobody. The youngest brother. A
tousle-haired tearaway. It’s a speciality of mine. So...’ He stood
back to let her admire him. ‘You reckon I’ll survive Caroline’s
scrutiny?’

‘Turn round and let me see... Yes, you’ll
do. No-one’s going to call
you
droopy drawers. But you might
find your arse on the receiving end of more unwanted attentions
now.’

‘That wouldn’t include yours by any
chance?’

She fixed him with a look. ‘As well as
covering up tell-tale numbers on tape measures, we’re trained to
rebuff sexual advances from artistes who think they can take
advantage of an intimate working relationship.’

‘Is that so? I see what you mean about the
training being exhaustive. How very disappointing. I
was
going to ask - politely - if you’d have dinner with me. In about
three weeks time when we’ve finished shooting this bloody scene. I
wonder - if I
had
asked - what you would have said?’

‘I might have said yes. Though I’m not sure
someone with a weight problem should really be dining out.’

He beamed at her. ‘Gwen, you are a delight!
Please
have dinner with me. Or rather, please let me watch
you eat dinner. I’ll just toy with a breadstick.’

She folded her arms. ‘OK, I give in. You’ve
worn me down. A girl can stand only so much relentless charm. Is
this what they teach you at drama school nowadays? Come and find me
when you’re through. You might want some help getting out of those
breeches.’ She grinned, then turned and walked away, leaving him
temporarily bereft of words.

He watched her long-legged stride and the
way her thick, dark hair swung from side to side in time with her
step. He called out after her, ‘You know, you just made my
day!’

Laughing, she turned back, executed a mock
curtsey, then continued on her way.

Gwen

Alfie had various alternative titles for our
Regency epic (which he described as ‘based on an original idea
rejected by Jane Austen’). One was
Age and Avarice
, another
Plots and Plausibility
and, at the end of a long and trying
day, when filming hadn’t gone well and we were considering more
sensible ways of earning a living,
Fees and Feasibility
.

Alfie and I shared a passion for the novel
on which the series was loosely based, so I thought his cynicism
justified. The screenwriter who’d adapted the book had changed the
plot, the characters and the ending and he’d set it ten years later
(because the costumes were prettier). Apart from those minor
alterations, he claimed, it was
totally
faithful to the
original. There were those who said the sex scenes were gratuitous
and inappropriate, but as the director repeatedly informed the
cast, this was to be a Jane Austen for the twenty-first century.
Sex scenes were apparently what Jane herself would have written if
she’d had a free hand. And, I added privately, if she hadn’t been a
spinster. And a virgin. And disinclined to write a scene in which
no female character appeared, on the grounds that she, Jane, had no
idea how men talked to each other when ladies weren’t present.

Or, as Alfie put it, much more succinctly,
Sperm
and Spuriousness.

We were filming on location in Sussex. Alfie
lived in London and I shared a flat in Brighton with two other
girls. We decided to have dinner in Brighton and Alfie said he
would get the train back to Victoria. He wasn’t staying in digs for
the shoot and said he always went home if he possibly could. He
lived alone in a basement flat in Highbury. His mother had bought
it for a song years ago to use as her pied-à-terre in town,
although Alfie suspected it had actually served as a love-nest. It
was now worth a small fortune. Alfie said knowing he was perceived
as a man of property had proved cold comfort when he’d been burgled
(twice) and mugged (once) on his own very expensive doorstep.

He gave me all this information, partly to
entertain, but also, I suspect, to let me know he didn’t expect me
to offer him a bed - shared or spare - after our meal. Alfie let me
understand right from the start that he was a private person, that
he was territorial. At first I thought it must have something to do
with being a member of a large family. I now know going to ground
in that gloomy basement was the only way he could switch off. Only
when he closed his own front door could he stop performing. He
said, if he didn’t spend some time alone, every day, he forgot who
he really was.

I used to dismiss some of the things Alfie
said as hyperbole, the camp exaggerations of an actor and
raconteur
, but I came to realise that truth was vitally
important to him. Paradoxically perhaps for an actor who spent his
life pretending, Alfie rarely told lies. It was a point of honour
with him. More than anything, he wanted to be taken seriously.

~~~

Gwen glanced up from her menu and studied Alfie as he
read the wine list. He wore a white T-shirt underneath a fawn linen
suit. Both revealed his weight problem to be imaginary. His hair,
like the suit, was fashionably rumpled, the Byronic curls no longer
in evidence. He looked up and said, ‘So what are you having?’

‘The sea bass, I think.’

‘Snap. How do you like your wine?’

‘Not at all. I’m allergic to alcohol.’

‘How tragic.’

‘Not really. I had a very dear aunt who was
an alcoholic, so the attraction of booze always escaped me.’

‘ “Was”? Is she an ex-alcoholic?’

‘No,’ Gwen replied, not looking up from her
menu. ‘An ex-person.’

Alfie didn’t answer immediately, then said
softly, ‘Alcoholism is a
bugger
, isn’t it? Children have no
idea what’s going on. Or what to
do
.’ Gwen said nothing and
continued to stare fixedly at her menu. Alfie took the hint. ‘Well,
I’m going to have a glass - possibly two - of
sauvignon
blanc
. Would you like some mineral water? Sparkling?’

‘Yes, please,’ she replied, relieved at the
change of subject. As he ordered for them, Gwen resumed her study
of Alfie. He definitely wasn’t handsome, but he was appealing. Sexy
in a quirky, boyish sort of way. She had to admit, he was
definitely growing on her.

When the waiter had gone, Alfie leaned
across the table and said, ‘If you’re going to make me the object
of scrutiny, I shall have to ask if you’re mentally undressing me
and if so, is it for professional purposes or just for
pleasure?’

She laughed. ‘The conceit of the man! Just
listen to him!’

He feigned surprise. ‘I thought a degree of
familiarity was appropriate when addressing an attractive woman
who’s already had her hand down my trousers.’

‘For professional purposes
only
.’

He inclined his head and narrowed his eyes.
‘So - why the fixed gaze? The puzzled look?’

‘I thought I was being quite discreet.’

‘You were, but I’m observant. One of the
tools of my tawdry trade.’

Gwen had a moment to consider her reply as
the waiter brought their drinks. When he retreated she said, ‘I was
watching you and thinking you look familiar somehow. But I’m sure
I’ve never met you. I think if I had, I’d have remembered.’

Alfie waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, everyone
thinks they know me. They do in a way. A
version
of me. A
younger version.’

‘What do you mean? Were you a child
actor?’

‘No, but a child actor has played me.’

‘I don’t understand. Are you famous
then?’

‘No, unfortunately. But my alter ego
is.’

‘You have a twin?’

‘No, though you’re getting close.’

‘Oh, Alfie, stop being mysterious! Please
explain. Why do I feel as if I know you?’

He sighed. ‘Probably because you’ve seen
photos of me in magazines and newspapers. You might also have seen
a documentary about my mother - who
is
famous. She was
filmed explaining - at interminable length - how I was her muse.
What she didn’t mention was that I’m also the well-spring of her
considerable income. The goose that laid the golden egg. Or should
that be gander?’ He shrugged and poured them both some mineral
water. ‘A biological impossibility... But then so am I.’

‘Alfie, who the hell
are
you?’

‘Tom, Dick and Harry.’

‘
What
?’

‘I was the inspiration. The books were based
on me. My mother created one of the great characters of
twentieth-century children’s fiction and she based him on me.’

‘Oh! You mean
Tom Dickon Harry
!’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘So your mother is Rachael Holbrook?’

‘Yes. She married twice. Her second husband
was called Alfred Donovan, after whom I had the misfortune to be
named. I was the fifth and final child, the longed-for son after
four disappointing daughters.’

‘So Tom Dickon Harry was a real boy?’

‘No, not really. But my mother claimed I was
the inspiration for him and the media have pandered to that
fantasy. It’s good copy. A feel-good family story about a gifted
but long-neglected author making a comeback in middle-age with a
new character who captures everyone’s imagination, appeals to boys,
girls, parents, teachers, librarians,
everyone
. Everybody
loves Tom Dickon Harry and many have profited from him. Booksellers
love him because every year they can bank on shifting shed-loads of
the new TDH, as it’s known in the trade. Publishers love him
because he’s made children’s fiction fashionable and lucrative.
Librarians and teachers love him because he doesn’t indulge in
anti-social behaviour and talks in polysyllables. Boys love him
because he’s the friend they’ve always wanted: reliable,
resourceful, a good person to have around when you’re in a tight
spot. And girls love him because he’s a hero in miniature: brave,
kind, funny and not bad-looking for a twelve year-old. Tom Dickon
Harry is human,’ said Alfie, shaking out his napkin as food was set
before them, ‘But he’s not
real
.’

‘And... TDH is you?’

‘No, Gwen, I am TDH. In the minds of
millions of readers. The documentary was made ten years ago but
they repeat it now and again on daytime TV and every time Rae
brings out another book, they run a picture of me alongside one of
the illustrations in the new book, pointing out how I’ve aged while
good old TDH stays forever young. It’s the reverse of
Dorian
Gray
. I get older and more raddled, but my pen-portrait in the
attic remains ever pure and youthful.’

‘You sound bitter.’

‘Do I? I shouldn’t be. TDH has paid for
almost everything I own. But he’s also responsible for the
non-event that has been my acting career. Maybe I’d have been a
nonentity anyway, who knows? It’s hard to say. But some years ago I
accepted that all the time I was perceived by casting directors as
an ageing schoolboy, I wasn’t going to be offered Hamlet. Heroes of
any kind, in fact. I’m TDH. I even
look
like TDH because
he’s based on me. So I’m doomed to toil away in the theatrical
ghetto of younger sons and heroes’ sidekicks. My destiny is to play
Buttons to some taller guy’s Prince Charming.’

‘You
are
bitter.’