Soldier No More (32 page)

“Damn right!” Bradford looked up suddenly. “Not the book though … though they should have read the damn thing more carefully—they should have figured anyone who dreamed up a character like Sidonius Simplicius would be tricky … but no, not the book.” He grimaced. “Or not really the book.”

“What then?” asked Jilly.

“The contract, of course!” Stein sat back.

Bradford nodded wordlessly.

“Oh—bloody good show!” The shadows on the Israeli’s face creased into a delighted grin. “The little old spinster lady took the studio lawyers for a ride—did she?”

“It isn’t so goddamn funny, Davey.”

“I think it’s hilarious, old boy!”

“Not with two million bucks riding on it, it isn’t!”

“Which
she
gets?”

“If they make the movie she does.”

“And if they don’t?”

“She’s already got half a million.”

Stein laughed. “What’s she objecting to, Mike?”

The American grunted morosely. “Ostensibly … to some minor changes in the plot—“

“You mean, you want to change the history from the way it really happened?” Stein pointed accusingly.

“And she can do that?” Jilly looked from one to the other of them. “I didn’t think Hollywood let authors call the tune like that?”

“Especially little old spinster ladies,” agreed Stein mockingly. “Little old spinster ladies should know their place.”

“They gave her half a million bucks, man,” said Bradford.

“Of course! And who cares about the truth? So… they dangled another million-and-a-half in front of her, like the philanthropists they are— because they just
love
little old ladies—believing she’d take the money and cry all the way to the bank, and the hell with history and truth!” Stein’s voice hardened.

Lexy looked out of the shadow at the Israeli’s shoulder, to lean past him to deposit another bottle on the table.

“Oh—come on, Davey darling!” She brushed her cheek against his. “It’s not Mike’s fault—it’s only Hollywood making a film in gorgeous technicolour. Don’t take on so!”

Stein melted perceptibly, smiling up at her. “Lexy dear, I write about things fifteen thousand years before Galla Placidia, and I wouldn’t change a word just to please someone if I didn’t think it was true.” He shifted his glance to Audley. “I’m not being awkward—ask David there if you don’t believe me, he’s the chairman tonight …. What does the chair rule on truth?”

Audley looked down his Roman nose at them. “The chair rules that its glass is empty. Fill my glass, Lady Alexandra!”

Bradford raised himself up. “And I say—the truth isn’t like that. It’s a lot more complicated.”

“So what is the truth, Mike?” asked Jilly.

Bradford turned to her. “The truth is, Jilly honey … first, there were two studios bidding for
Princess in the Sunset
—and little Miss Simplicitas Palfrey had a smart shyster lawyer from back East playing one off against the other, selling each of them the idea that she was a greedy old bag who’d be a pushover once the contract was signed, and screw the history.”

“But she wasn’t—she isn’t?”

Bradford stared at her for a moment. “Yeah … well, maybe so … but my guess is she doesn’t give a damn about the history, from the letters I’ve seen. She’s just using that clause to get what she wants in another clause where she doesn’t have the say-so—where they’d never have let her screw them … like, she’s ready to have Attila the Hun in the action twenty years before he actually appeared on the scene—thirty years, more like, even—“ he looked at Audley “—Attila, huh?”

Audley shrugged. “He crossed the Danube in 440—is that what you want?”

“I mean the great battle—the one that settled the fate of Europe, darn it.”

Another shrug. “The Mauriac Plain? Near Troyes—451?” Audley clearly wasn’t about to release much of his history just for Hollywood’s benefit. “Romans and Visigoths versus Huns?” He made it sound like a rugger match.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“I know all about that,” said Lexy.

“Indeed?” said Audley. “Tell us?”

“It’s all in the book, darling—
Princess in the Sunset—
“
Lexy faltered “—remember?”

“I don’t read such books—remember?” said Audley cuttingly.

Roche was simultaneously aware of why Audley had been so comprehensively disliked and that he wanted to help Lexy.

“They beat the Huns, didn’t they?” He smiled encouragingly at her. “For the first time ever—they beat them?”

“On points,” said Audley. “Strictly speaking, it was about 16-15 in tries and penalties, with no goals.”

“But they beat them,” said Roche, ignoring Audley.

“Oh yes!” Lexy’s courage flamed up. “The Roman general— Thingummy-what’s-his-name—“

“Aëtius,” Roche plucked the name out of recent memory. “Him, yes—
he
got the Visigoths to help him fight the Huns… but it was all set up by Simplicius really, so they’d all kill each other.”

It was a double-cross—or a triple-cross?” said Stein.

“It was a double-cross, that’s for sure!” said Bradford. “Only it’s Miss Palfrey who’s doing the double-crossing. She doesn’t give a damn for all this—it’s the casting she’s after. I think we could put George Washington into it for all she cares—just so she can say who’s going to play him …. Those are her terms, and she’s driving the studio nuts with people they’ve never heard of!”

“Who’s going to play Galla Placidia?” asked Lexy eagerly.

“Huh! You may well ask! At the rate the negotiations are going probably no one.”

“Let me guess!” Lexy plumped herself down alongside Roche, smiling up at him happily. “You know, I never expected the Dark Ages to be so interesting! But let’s see now … Joan Fontaine—no … Janet Leigh —no … Jean Simmons—maybe … Elizabeth Taylor—how about her?”

Audley growled something unintelligible.

“Not for the daughter of Theodosius the Great, Alexandra dear,” said Stein quickly, with a seriousness which Roche was now able to identify as purely mischievous, aimed equally at Audley and Bradford. “You need someone more aristocratic—say Deborah Kerr?”

Bradford opened his mouth, but Lexy was too quick for him. “Not sexy enough, darling. You should read the book—Galla Placidia’s hot stuff, I tell you! The way she fixes poor old Atwulf—“

“
Ataulf
.” Audley pronounced the name through gritted teeth. “This is monstrous!”

“You’re damn right it’s monstrous,” agreed Bradford bitterly. “Because Lexy’s got it plum on target—the studio was trying to line up Liz Taylor, after they’d finished shooting
Raintree County
—“

“Super!” exclaimed Lexy.

“Super hell! Miss Palfrey won’t have her at any price. She wants Barbara Jefford, Lex honey.”

“Barbara—?” Lexy sat up straight. “Barbara Jefford?”

“Barbara Jefford!” Astonishment replaced mischief in Stein’s voice as he too sat up. Then he swung towards Lexy. “Now don’t you dare say you haven’t heard of her, young Alexandra!”

“Of course I’ve heard of her. But… she’s an
actress
—“

“God save us!” Stein raised his hands. “ ‘She’s an actress’!”

“I mean a stage actress—Stratford and the Old Vic, and all that, Davey—“

“And so do I. She’s a splendid actress—“ Stein switched to Audley.

“—you remember her from Stratford, David? Hotspur’s Kate? Marvellous!”

“Sure she is—marvellous,” Bradford intervened. “I’m not arguing she isn’t a great actress—they’re all terrific—they’re all great… but who ever heard of them in Denver or St. Louis, for Christ’s sake?”

“Heard of who?”

“Hell, man—Quayle and Badel… and Griffiths—“

“
Hugh
Griffiths?” Stein beamed. “But this is gorgeous, my dear fellow— Anthony Quayle and Alan Badel
and
Hugh Griffiths—she wants them in the film of her book, Antonia Palfrey does?” He paused for half a second. “And—don’t tell me—Michael Redgrave?”

Bradford’s mouth opened. “Who told you that?”

“Ah-hah! All is known to Stein …” The Israeli wagged his head at the American, and then stopped suddenly as though an afterthought had struck him. “But what about young Burton? If she’s got all the others she has to have him—“ the afterthought was transferred to Audley “—Burton above all—right, David?”

Audley frowned. “Burton who?”

“But you
must
remember! He was the fellow you liked so much once you found out he was a rugger-player. Didn’t he have a trial for Wales, or something? And you said he’d come down in the world, to play the lead at Stratford?”

“Eh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about either,” snapped Bradford. “But you’re right about Richard Burton—in fact he’s the only one they agree on, Palfrey and the studio. But who told you about
him
—the Palfrey cast list is supposed to be ultra secret—who told you?”

“No one told me.” Stein continued to look at Audley. “But David there knows. He’s just playing dumb, that’s all.”

Audley drew himself up stiffly. “I am not playing dumb, damn it! Burton … yes, he was an actor from somewhere—but I can’t be expected to remember actors’ names. I don’t go to the theatre.”

“You did once. In fact, you did several times—with me—to Stratford… in fact…
in fact
, I taught you to drive that summer, in that terrible old car of yours—‘50, or ‘51—and we were staying with those girls in that cottage near Banbury … and you drove home every night drunk as a lord—damn it, David … the Stratford season we went to—“ Stein spread his hands and looked around for support “—he had these tickets for the Stratford Shakespeare season, and there were these two girls—and he had this car he couldn’t drive, and I was teaching him … and we saw the whole season—
Richard II
, with Redgrave as Richard, and both parts of
Henry IV
and
Henry V
, with Burton as Prince Hal—and
The Tempest
with Redgrave as Prospero—and he was also a cracking good Hotspur in
Henry IV
—“ he rounded on Audley “—damn it, David … you had these matinee tickets, and we were stuck in the middle of this schoolgirl outing, from Benenden or some such place—and Redgrave was massaging his wife’s right buttock and left breast like mad on stage, and these little schoolgirls were
ooh-ing
and
aah-ing
at every squeeze in the audience alongside of us—you have to remember that!”

Roche covertly observed the lamplight shadows twitch on Audley’s face as the circumstantial tale unfolded around him, and found himself questioning why the big man continued to resist it.

“Yes … well—“ Audley rocked on his stool as though embarrassed by the return of the memory “—we did see the
Histories
season at Stratford, I grant you. But I don’t remember any schoolgirls wetting their pants next to me … and I certainly don’t see what that’s got to do with Bradford’s curious obsessions now, either.”

Nor do I,” said Bradford.

“But I do.” Jilly ignored him. “They were all in the Stratford season— you’re right, Davey. I only saw
Richard II
and
The Tempest
… but they were all in it—“

“Richard Burton’s
yummy
,” said Lexy. “I’ve seen him in something in the West End—and in a film. He’d be scrumptious with Elizabeth Taylor, I should think. And I wouldn’t mind him tackling me in a loose scrum!”

“Shut up, Lexy “admonished Jilly. “Davey—she’s cast the film from the Stratford season, is what you’re saying—is that it?”

Stein nodded. “That’s exactly it. Quayle played Falstaff, and Badel was Pistol … Griffiths was Glendower … plus Redgrave and Burton and Jefford—coincidence just doesn’t stretch so far, it has to be intention.”

“She saw the plays, of course,” said Jilly. “And she liked what she saw.”

“Which is not to be wondered at—it was pure magic, that season,” said Stein. “Quite unforgettable!”

“Well—so what’s all the fuss about?” Lexy looked around. “I mean, if they’re all so marvellous and magic and unforgettable—?” She zeroed in on the American. “Mike?”

Bradford sighed. “Maybe … But it doesn’t work like that.”

You mean Hollywood doesn’t work like that,” said Jilly. “I mean you can’t pick names out of a hat,” said Bradford heavily. “It’s who’s available, and who’s under contract, and who’s box office—and you can’t just cast a Hollywood movie straight out of Shakespeare hits from Stratford-upon-Avon, England, no matter how good the cast was—or how wet the schoolgirls’ pants were. It’s a crazy idea.”

“Olivier did it with
Henry V
and
Hamlet
,” countered Jilly. “But they were Shakespeare plays—this is a goddamn epic.”

So why not make it in England?”

“Like
Caesar and Cleopatra
? Honey, you must be joking!” Bradford reached for a bottle.

Stein leaned forward. “But Miss Palfrey isn’t joking.”

“The hell she isn’t!” Bradford refilled his glass. “Just a simple little old spinster lady living in seclusion with the blinds drawn to keep out the sunlight…” he drank deeply.

“What’s she really like?” asked Jilly.

“Huh! That would be telling!”

“Tell us, Mike,” asked Lexy.

“Sure. For five thousand bucks on account, and twenty thousand to come … she’s a two-timing, double-crossing, obstinate, secretive, avaricious, scheming old hag, who’d make your Madame Peyrony look like Florence Nightingale, Lex honey.” Bradford drained his glass. “Or … to put it another way … I haven’t the faintest idea. Okay?”

“What d’you mean—you haven’t the faintest idea?”

“And where does five thousand dollars—or twenty thousand—come in?” asked Stein. “It’s what they’re paying you? For what?”

“Twenty thousand doesn’t come in, the way it’s looking—“ Bradford nodded at Audley “—unless David there can pull the rabbit out of the hat.” The nod was converted into a slow shake of the head. “Because you’re my last hope, Old buddy.”

“Then you’ve got no hope,
old buddy
.” Audley looked down his nose at his friend. “It’s not my field, the so-called ‘historical’ novel.”

“Archie Forbes said you could.”

“Archie Forbes at Cambridge?” said Jilly suddenly. “
That
Archie Forbes, d’you mean?”