Whitby Vampyrrhic (3 page)

The man in the cap shuffled to a set of light switches on the wall.

The door opened again.

Sally took it upon herself to continue the joke. ‘Bela Lugosi!'

This time, even those who'd been amused by Beth's Cary Grant leg-pull were embarrassed by the entrance of a man wearing a black eyepatch.

Briskly, he strode towards the cinema screen with the words, ‘Bela Lugosi? I'm afraid not. I'm a lot less Hungarian than our esteemed Mr Lugosi.' The rich Scottish accent of rolling Rs would have been hard to miss.

Blushing furiously, Sally stared down at her knees.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,' he continued, ‘my name is Alec Reed. I have written the script and will direct you to the best of my ability to act brilliantly. Congratulations on being selected to play in the film. I'm sure we'll all do our best to work professionally. But hear this: I have at least one good eye. And one thing I know is when people are slacking. I can spot the work-shy a mile off. I won't tolerate anyone trying to rob me of an honest day's work.' He glanced at Sally, still red-faced and cringing in her seat. ‘Together we will forge
This Midnight Realm
; a story to melt hearts. It will remind audiences at home and abroad why we are fighting this war with Hitler. As well as entertainment, its purpose is to explain what it is like to live in the Britain of 1942. A Britain at war with an evil lunatic, who loves nothing better than to drop bombs on our heads every night.' He touched the eyepatch. ‘The damn dog nearly got me last week. And I daresay he's tried to kill you, too, and the ones you love. So . . . consider this as your part in the fight against Fascism, which threatens democracy itself. If our film can help persuade neutral countries to side with us, we will have won a battle – one just as important as blowing up Nazi tanks. If you're not prepared to surrender your home comforts, your film-star egos, and even your lives for this film, then haul your stinking backsides out of those seats and trudge back to whatever hole you crawled out of. Do I make myself clear?'

A good many in the audience shuffled uncomfortably at the man's suddenly aggressive tone. But nobody challenged what he'd said. Nobody, however, but one.

Beth Layne raised her hand. ‘Mr Reed, a question?'

‘Oh, our American actress, or so I detect from the accent?'

‘Yes, my name is Beth—'

‘Layne. I know that, madam. I personally rubber-stamped your application.'

‘You've asked us to surrender ourselves body and soul to this motion picture.'

‘Indeed I have, madam. I demand it. Freedom demands it.'

‘Then will you surrender the liquor bottle for the sake of the film?'

He glared at her.
If looks could kill
 . . .

Everyone's jaws dropped at her words. Beth pressed on. ‘I know the scent of gin, Mr Reed, and plenty of it followed you into this screening room.'

Sally looked ready to die of embarrassment.

‘And, Mr Reed, the aroma of freshly imbibed gin at ten in the morning is a sorrowful thing in my estimation.'

The man's face quivered. That single eye of his blazed. Then something that was as shocking as it was unexpected. A bead of red liquid, quick as a tear, emerged from beneath the eyepatch to roll down his cheek.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke in a low, controlled voice – a little too controlled, ‘You will now see the prologue to
This Midnight Realm
. It explains what dangers we are experiencing. After the presentation you will receive your scripts, together with your allotted roles.' Then he turned to Beth. ‘Miss Layne. I wish to speak to you before the scripts are handed out.' He nodded at the man in the cap. ‘Lights, if you will, Stan.'

The moment the screening room plunged into darkness, lights flashed on the screen. Numbers scrolled downward in silence: 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . .

Beth whispered into Sally's ear, ‘No prizes for guessing what Mr Reed wants to tell me after the film.'

Sally hissed back, ‘You idiot, Beth. You're going to wind up in a factory making bombs, after all.'

Those nearest shushed Sally with unconcealed irritation.

Beth thought,
I guess we've got off on the wrong foot, alright. The omens aren't good.
Feeling her spirits droop into the soles of her ‘sensible' lace-up travelling shoes, Beth focused on the screen in front of her.

The title blazed, accompanied by a heroic fanfare of music:

Following that, shots of London streets, Big Ben, the winged statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus, children on swings in a playground. Then a siren rose over the music. Beth sensed a sudden stillness amongst the audience. The shots of London were repeated, but each one quickly faded. The screen crashed to black. Only the siren continued.

Slowly, it faded as the voice-over began: ‘
Ladies and Gentlemen. That dreadful sound you are hearing is the siren that warns every man, woman and child that enemy planes are approaching their homes.
' Beth recognized those softly modulated tones. Alec Reed had narrated the introduction to the film. He spoke with a measured dignity – unrushed, precise, yet with a special clarity, as if he wished with all his heart to be understood. ‘
Ever since 1939, Britain has been at war with Hitler's evil Nazi empire. We are an island under siege. Enemy submarines sink our ships. Enemy planes pour fire and explosives on to every city.
' Images again: this time of bomb craters in a children's playground, of burning ships in a harbour, of ruined homes with dazed survivors sitting on the rubble. Alec Reed's voice-over continued. ‘
The war kills people like you and I. Bombs destroy homes and factories and schools. But this war has brought something else. It has engulfed us in a great tide of darkness.
' Once more, footage of wrecked houses faded to black.

‘
Darkness, darkness
 . . .
all encompassing. There are times we believe that the darkness will flood our minds and drown our souls. Because, ever since the war began, British people are strictly forbidden to show any kind of light at night. Lest that light act as a guiding beacon to enemy bombers. After all, even a lighted cigarette can be seen from five thousand feet above your head. So
 . . .
at night
 . . .
that long, dreadful night
 . . .
windows are shrouded by cloth: dark cloth, funeral black.
' Scenes of men and women pulling swathes of blackout material over windows. ‘
If the light still shows through the drapes and curtains and blinds, then we must paint even the window glass. Show no light. Not a glimmer. Not a twinkle. Otherwise the bombs will fall. Bombs are death to you and your neighbour, and to her baby sleeping in its cradle.
' More shots of cities at night, the buildings reduced to ghostly silhouettes. ‘
So we blunder about in darkness. Even in the middle of our biggest city. No street lights
 . . .
No headlamps on cars must be visible. If they are, the Nazi death machine will come. This, then, is our night. When darkness is king.
'

Sally couldn't stop herself whispering in total admiration, ‘Isn't he poetic?'

From all around, people shushed.

The narration rose in volume as music surged in to carry his words to the climax. ‘
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to spend a little while with me
 . . .
to watch how ordinary families, from an ordinary street, not only cope with life in this new midnight realm, but how they rise up, conquer it, and make darkness their
domain
 . . .' Music boomed in triumph. A map appeared of a coast. ‘
Here is the little English seaside town of Whitby. Come with me now and meet these ordinary – yet, as you'll see – extraordinary men and women.
'

The film ended abruptly.

‘Lights please, Stan.' The room lights revealed the narrator of the film standing by the screen. His fingertips touched the eyepatch, as if he'd become even more conscious of it. ‘So far, that's all that has been shot of
This Midnight Realm
. This is where you enter the story of our film, ladies and gentlemen. You will play those ordinary men and women of Whitby, a town at war. It will be your role,
your quest
, to show the rest of the world how we carry on with our ordinary lives, despite the hardships of air raids, food rationing and the blackout.' He checked his watch. ‘We'll now take a break. Please be back here for ten forty-five. Thank you.'

The audience applauded. They were excited, enthusiastic.

Beth applauded, murmuring as she did so, ‘He knows how to work a crowd, doesn't he?'

Sally didn't pick up any note of sarcasm. Breathlessly, she gushed, ‘I can't believe I'm going to be in my first movie. All I've ever done is shows in village halls. It's wonderful. Will they style my hair . . . Oh? Do I have to buy my own make-up? But I will be in black and white, won't I? Don't we have to wear black lipstick, so it shows up on screen? Just imagine, Beth! We'll have our faces in big, shining close-up! Big as giants! And we'll be in cinemas all over the world.'

‘Just wait until Hitler begs for your autograph.'

Sally's eyes went wide. ‘Oh, he might see me. I hadn't thought about that.'

‘Don't worry. I'm sure
This Midnight Realm
won't play in downtown Berlin.' Beth put her arm around Sally to give her friend an affectionate squeeze. ‘I'm really pleased you've got the part. And I'm sorry that I won't be with you in Whitby.'

‘But you will. You've signed the contract.'

‘And I'll be fired before I even get the script. Me and my big mouth, eh, kid? But Mr Big Guns Director there, Alec Reed, made me so angry. He shouldn't talk to us like we're lazy no-gooders.'

Already the young actresses had formed a half circle in front of Alec, so they could vie to flatter him, laugh at his jokes, and beam winning smiles.

Beth said, ‘You best make sure your face is seen down there by Mr Reed. Otherwise all the pretty girls will get the best parts.' She stood up.

‘Beth, where are you going?'

‘Oh, I'm going to get some air before he fires me.'

‘Beth—'

‘Sally, don't worry. I'll stick around and look after you today. Men in film studios prowl round like hungry wolves when pretty young actresses are about. Later, I'll play the big sister and give you a list of do's and don'ts before you go off to Whitby. There's no need to fret about costumes and make-up; they have people to take care of that for you.'

‘I'm scared, Beth. I don't know what to say to anyone.'

‘You'll be fine. Because you're a golden-hearted sweetie, and everyone will recognize the good in you.' She stood up. ‘Ciao.'

Two

Beth Layne relished her current sense of utter relief. A hothouse of thespian egos always oppressed her.
Don't get me wrong,
she thought.
I love the job of acting. It's just that some actors and actresses can be so damn annoying. I'd love to see them in a big factory with clanking metal presses making turrets for tanks. Would they last the week? A day? No, I think not.

‘Now I'm being bitchy,' she murmured to herself, as she paused at a mirror by a studio door to adjust a lock of hair that hung down over her forehead. ‘And I'm being as vain as they are.' Beth, an American by birth, had left the States to find work in the English film industry five years ago. She figured her American accent, and hair as golden as a Nebraskan cornfield, would win her lead roles. Also, she had served Cary Grant a cocktail in one of his Hollywood movies. That kind of gem on a résumé could get a girl decent acting parts in the old motherland. Only, the war had come along to complicate things.

Roaming wolf-packs of German submarines made Transatlantic crossings for civilians a near impossibility, so she couldn't return home to the US of A. Add to that, America had entered the war against Japan and Hitler's Germany just a matter of weeks ago. And, dear God in heaven, she did want to aid the war effort. If it wasn't for landing a role in
This Midnight Realm
, she would have presented herself at a munitions factory and begged to make bullets for allied soldiers. Beth told herself firmly,
One thing I'm not afraid of is to get my hands dirty
.

She gazed into the mirror. Now she wanted to kick herself for lousing up this opportunity
. I must have been out of my mind to accuse the director of being a gin-sodden lush.
But the moment he'd opened his mouth he'd annoyed the hell out of her.

‘Fresh air,' she muttered. ‘Get fresh air and plenty of it.'

Beth headed down a long corridor. Doors off carried signs like
Edward Birks, Senior Producer
or
Kathleen Miller, Script Supervisor.
Everywhere, on the drab green walls, there were reproductions of the Cromwell-Sterling logo, a female warrior carrying a shield and a spear. She paused. She couldn't remember if this corridor led to the exit. After all, it was her first time at this particular studio. A pair of secretaries, hugging armfuls of scripts, rushed from a door in front of her. Their red lips were the brightest slash of colour in the corridor.

‘Excuse me,' she began, ‘can you tell me—' But they vanished through another door marked
Production Accountant
. ‘That's it,' she muttered darkly. ‘I'm doomed to wonder the studios for all eternity.'

She longed for a lungful of cold winter air. Her head felt muzzy. A pain flared behind her eyes.
Great, just great, now I'm going down with flu. But the symptoms don't occur so quickly, do they?
Suddenly, the air in the corridor of a million doors – at least that's what it seemed like – became thunderously oppressive. Pain speared her eyes.
Good grief. My skull's going to explode.
She gritted her teeth. For some reason it seemed like a huge charge of energy had invaded the building. Dizzy, she placed her hand on the wall to steady herself. Lights dimmed. As there were no windows, the corridor grew so gloomy that she could barely even see those doors leading off; what's more, the doorways became suggestive of churchyard headstones – tall oblong, shapes that breathed the words
grave
,
tomb
,
cemetery
and
death
into her ear.