Samantha Lindsay stepped out of Kingsford Smith Airport to a sparkling spring morning, pleasantly warm but not hot, the sun shining in a cloudless blue sky. It was good to be back. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed Sydney. But she recalled someone once saying, ‘when you’ve lived happily in another country for over a year you’re a person without a home’, and these days she found herself agreeing. She loved England and Australia equally; to make a choice would be very difficult.

‘Sam!’ She didn’t hear the yell above the babble of the milling crowd as she steered her obstinate luggage trolley into the lengthy queue at the taxi rank. She was to have been met at the airport and taken directly to her hotel, but when no-one had been waiting for her as she’d come through customs, she’d headed for a taxi. It hadn’t bothered her particularly, Reg had given her the necessary details when he’d collected her at Fareham and taken her to Heathrow Airport. She’d been booked into the Quay Grand Hotel in Macquarie Street, he’d told her as he handed over a large envelope with her travel documents and itinerary.

‘The penthouse, suite 1102, overlooking the harbour,’ he’d said. ‘The view from the other side of the hotel looks out over the botanical gardens, they tell me, with glimpses of the Opera House, but I thought you’d prefer the water.’

‘I would. But I don’t need a penthouse, and I don’t need a five-star hotel. I’d rather be self-sufficient, Reg, you know that. Can’t they give me an apartment somewhere?’

‘They have. It’s entirely self-contained. A kitchen with all mod cons, a laundry, even a guest bedroom and spare bathroom. It just happens to be a penthouse in a five-star hotel overlooking one of the greatest views in the world, poor you.’

‘Well, yes,’ she’d graciously acceded, ‘I suppose I can live with that.’

She’d have two days to get over her jet lag, he’d told her, before she’d be collected for rehearsals at ten in the morning. He had also given her the shooting schedule that the production company had faxed to him, but she hadn’t paid much attention to it during the flight, concentrating more on the script instead. There were to be discussions with the screenwriter and director before the commencement of filming and that was of far more importance to her.

‘Sam!’ the voice once again shrilled, and this time she heard it. She turned to see Nicholas Parslow elbowing his way through weary travellers, much to the annoyance of many, tripping over their luggage, and saying ‘sorry, sorry’, left and right.

‘Nick!’ she said as he finally reached her, pushing his glasses back up his nose in a characteristic gesture which sent a rush of affection flooding through her. ‘Being met by the writer!’ She threw her arms around him. ‘I’m honoured, I thought they’d send a runner. Then I thought they’d forgotten about me and I was going to get a taxi.’

‘Sorry we’re late. Simon’s here too,’ Nick said trying to catch his breath, he wasn’t used to exercise. He wasn’t overweight, if anything he was on the lean side, but he was certainly unfit, with a writer’s pallor and eyes that squinted in the sun’s glare, unaccustomed as they were to natural light. Nick, whom Sam considered one of the nicest men she’d ever known, was always happiest scribbling in a notepad, or hunched over a computer, or in intense discussion with fellow collaborators. ‘He’s parking the car, we mis-timed it a bit,’ he apologised, ‘we thought you’d be longer getting through customs.’

‘Simon Scanlon?’ Sam had never met Simon. Nick nodded. ‘The writer and the director!’ she said. ‘I’m doubly honoured.’ She was surprised and impressed, it was most unexpected.

‘Oh Simon’s dying to meet you. Here, I’ll do that.’ Nick was about to take over the trolley as she guided it out of the taxi queue.

‘No, I’ll manage, I’m used to it now, it’s got a sticky wheel. Just hang on to the front and give it a shove when it starts to turn right. And can you grab that for me before I run over it?’ Sam indicated the heavy woollen overcoat that kept threatening to slide off the suitcases.

‘Well, you certainly won’t need this for a while,’ Nick said, slinging the coat over his shoulder.

‘How are you coping?’ Sam asked as they weaved their way through the crowds and down the street, Nick lending weight to the trolley every time it veered to the right.

‘Fine.’

She halted briefly and gave him a look which said ‘are you sure?’

‘I have my bad days now and then,’ he admitted, ‘but work gets me through. It always has.’

Nick’s devoted partner of ten years had died shortly after the stage run of Red Centre and, as he’d told her at the time, working on the film adaptation of his play had been the only thing which had kept him sane in the months which followed. Shortly after the funeral, Sam had disappeared to London and a new career, and she hadn’t seen Nick in the whole three years since Phillip’s death, although they’d been in regular touch.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you,’ she said.

‘You were,’ he assured her. ‘That’s the beauty of emails. You were more help than you could possibly know.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘It’s good to have you back.’ He kissed her cheek, and they set off once again with the luggage trolley, chatting nineteen to the dozen.

‘Simon was floored by your performance in A Doll’s House,’ Nick said. ‘He told me you inspired him, but then that’s no surprise. I said that you would. I only wish I could have seen it.’

‘Why didn’t he come backstage?’

‘I asked him the same thing. “Why the hell didn’t you meet her?” I said. But he reckons he was buggered after the flight. He’d got in to London that morning, and he was taking off for Sydney the next day. Fair enough, I suppose.’ Nick shrugged. ‘But actually I think he was mulling you over. Not that he didn’t want you for the role – he rang me first thing and told me you were it. But you see, Simon has this most amazing overall perspective.’ Nick had now forgotten about the wayward trolley which Sam was fighting to control. ‘It’s his great talent as a director of course. I bet he was awake half the night piecing everything together with you in the middle, he’s really intense like that. Total focus. When he’s putting the jigsaw bits together he loses sight of absolutely everything around him.’

‘Sounds like somebody else I know,’ Sam said as the trolley teetered on the edge of the kerb.

‘Oh sorry.’ Nick came to the rescue.

They waited by the pedestrian crossing opposite the car park, in full view so that Simon couldn’t miss them. ‘I’ve no idea where he parked the car,’ Nick said, ‘it’s safer to wait until he finds us. What did you think of the script?’

‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’

‘Yes it is, isn’t it?’ Nick’s agreement was in no sense ego-driven. Although a highly talented writer, he was an unassuming man, and when he considered a script the result of a collaborative effort, he was quick to give credit to others. Torpedo Junction was, in his opinion, as much a product of Simon Scanlon’s inventive input as his own creative skills.

‘And I’m over the moon about Sarah Blackston,’ Sam said. ‘She’s the role of a lifetime.’

‘Yes she is, isn’t she!’ Nick beamed enthusiastically. ‘Mamma Black! And she was tailor-made for you, Sam.’

‘You weren’t thinking of me when you wrote her, surely?’

‘Not initially,’ he admitted; Nick was always honest. ‘She’s loosely based on a real character and that’s what inspired me. But as soon as I started writing Mamma Black you were in my mind.’

They would probably have stood on the kerbside chatting for hours if a voice hadn’t interrupted them.

‘Samantha Lindsay. At last!’

Sam turned to see a man whom she instantly recognised. The newspaper and magazine photographs were unkind, she thought. Big-boned, craggy-faced, and beaky, he certainly resembled a pterodactyl, just as the newspapers portrayed, but he emanated such a warmth and energy that the overall impression was immensely attractive.

‘Simon,’ she said before Nick could introduce them, but then Simon Scanlon already had his hand outstretched. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come to the airport. I’m a bit overwhelmed, I have to admit.’

‘Couldn’t wait.’ His handshake was bone crushing. ‘Thought you were great in A Doll’s House. Dying to have a chat. Do you need to crash right away or could you handle a coffee?’ Simon often spoke in shorthand and always got straight to the point.

‘Don’t be pushy,’ Nick protested, ‘she’s probably exhausted, it’s a hell of a long flight.’

‘Have you ever travelled first class?’ Sam laughed. ‘I’ve been asleep in a full-length bed for the past seven hours. Thanks for that, by the way,’ she said to Simon.

‘Don’t thank me, thank Mammoth. Terrible waste of production money, in my opinion. Business class is perfectly adequate.’ His voice was a bark but his grin was amiable, and Sam found him disarming, in an alarming sort of way. ‘Let’s make it your place, Nick.’

‘She might want to go to the hotel first,’ Nick said protectively, aware that Simon could be a bit much on first meeting, particularly with those he’d decided he liked. With those he didn’t, he was dismissive, choosing simply to ignore them. ‘And there’s such a thing as body clocks and jet lag, you know, even if a person has slept for seven hours.’

‘I can handle the body clock and the jet lag,’ Sam said, ‘but I’d like to dump my gear at the hotel and check in first, if that’s all right. Could you give me an hour?’ she asked apologetically.

‘We’ll drive you there and wait outside.’ Simon obviously wasn’t going to let her out of his sight any longer than was absolutely necessary.

 

Sam adored her apartment at the Quay Grand. She was personally escorted to the eleventh floor by the hotel manager, who gave her a guided tour, an operational rundown of the high-tech appliances and equipment, and then tactfully left her to ‘settle in’.

Complete with kitchen surfaces of black marble, and a massive spa in the master bedroom’s en suite, the place was even more luxurious than Reg had promised, but to Sam, far outweighing the luxury was the spectacular view of Sydney Harbour.

She stepped out onto the balcony. Towering far to her right was the coat hanger of the Bridge, the laughing mouth of Luna Park nestled cheekily beneath it. Directly below her was the ever busy ferry terminal of Circular Quay, and the broad path, teeming with tourists and sightseers, which led around the point to the Opera House. A gleaming white ocean liner was docked at the far side of the quay and the harbour itself was a kaleidoscope of colour and action. Smartly trimmed green and yellow ferries chugged back and forth; huge catamarans, the less traditional but speedier form of public transport, zoomed effortlessly across the blue water’s surface; pleasure craft milled idly about; and dodging and weaving amongst them all like frantic messenger boys on bicycles were the water taxis. I could live on this balcony, Sam thought.

Then the porter arrived with her luggage and there was no longer any excuse to drink in the view. Hurriedly, she unpacked her essentials, cleaning her teeth and washing her face, all the while guiltily aware that Simon and Nick were sitting in the car out the front.

Simon, having been assured that Sam was safely booked in to the hotel, had turned down her offer to come up to the apartment and had even refused to sit comfortably in the foyer.

‘We’ll wait in the car,’ he’d told her, ‘you’ll be quicker that way.’

‘He’s a bugger, isn’t he?’ Nick had said. ‘Don’t let him bully you, Sam, take your time.’

But Sam had been bullied nonetheless. She would have loved to have showered and changed, but she didn’t dare. She brushed her hair and rubbed some moisturiser into her face; travelling first class didn’t stop your skin drying out, she thought. A quick spray of the Givenchy she’d bought at the duty free and twenty minutes later, script under her arm, she strode through the foyer to the waiting car.

 

Nick lived in Surry Hills. A huge gutted warehouse with steps leading to a loft which housed a bedroom and an extensive library.

Downstairs, every available piece of wall space was taken up by whiteboards scrawled with notes in different coloured markers, and corkboards pinned with papers and pictures. There were benches with computers and printers and fax machines, but predominant was a huge wooden table strewn with more papers and literature. Nick did much of his work by hand. ‘I like paper,’ he maintained. ‘It’s tactile and trustworthy.’

A potbelly stove was up one end of the vast room, surrounded by old armchairs and sofas, but for the most part people sat around the wooden table on a miscellany of ancient upright chairs garnered from second-hand shops. Despite the fact that Nick now earned top money, he liked to hang on to the past. ‘Why change a good thing?’ he’d say.

Light streamed through large leadlight windows upon the gloriously creative chaos, and Sam, who had often been to Nick’s home in bygone years, felt moved, remembering that half of this huge open space had once been taken up by Phillip’s easels and sculptures.

She glanced at Nick who gave a gentle smile of recognition, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

‘Down to business.’ Simon sat at the table whilst Nick prepared a plunger of coffee in the open kitchen alcove nearby. ‘I presume you’ve looked over the schedule.’

‘Only briefly,’ she admitted, sitting opposite him. ‘I know we’re shooting the opening scenes in the English house here at Fox Studios, and then we go on location to Vanuatu. That’s great, isn’t it?’ Sam was excited at the prospect of Vanuatu, she’d never been there before. ‘I thought we were shooting in far north Queensland …’

‘No, no, we’re going to where it all really happened,’ Simon interrupted brusquely, ‘but I don’t want you to think about that now. I want you to concentrate purely on the opening scenes.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, pterodactyl eyes gleaming with excitement, and, like many before her, Sam found herself mesmerised.

‘Sarah is two different people,’ he said. ‘I want you to put Sarah Blackston out of your mind completely. She is Sarah Huxley, and she’s locked in the claustrophobic house of her father. It must be beyond all possibility to envisage this colourless creature adventuring to Vanuatu and becoming Mamma Black. Her destiny is locked in this mausoleum of a house, as her father had always predicted it would be. She will look after him until he dies and then she’ll live on, an old maid with money but no-one to love her.’

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together aware that he’d captivated her. He’d told her nothing she hadn’t gleaned from the script, but his intensity was like an electrical charge.

‘Her father, Clifford, calls her a mouse, and she is,’ he continued. ‘We must see no strength in her until the final two scenes in the house. It’s only then that we realise she was never really a mouse at all. She was strong from the very beginning, it was only her father’s derision that made her a mouse.’

‘Oh yes, I agree with that,’ Sam said vehemently. ‘It’s right there on the page. The defiance of her father, the farewell scene, it’s all there.’ She glanced at Nick. Mesmeric Simon Scanlon may be, she thought, but let’s give the writer his due. Nick, however, smiled benignly as he brought the plunger of coffee to the table. He loved seeing Simon at work with actors, the man was inspirational.

‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ Simon agreed with a touch of impatience. ‘Now, let’s concentrate on the set for a minute, the set’s very important. Where’s the sugar, Nick?’ He started pouring himself a cup of coffee. He really was an arrogant man, Sam thought, but she couldn’t help herself, she was riveted.

‘We could have shot the opening and closing scenes on location in England you know, but I wanted a set. Mammoth thought I was mad; they’ve got a Titanic budget and they thought I was trying to cut corners. Stupid bastards. Typical Hollywood. They shower you with money when it’s not needed, and cut you back when it is.’

Nick joined them at the table with the sugar and milk, pouring a cup of coffee for Sam and giving her a reassuring wink.

‘There’ll be no exterior footage shot in England,’ Simon continued. ‘We never see the outside of the house, just the claustrophobic interior, mirroring the influence of the father. The set will work very effectively to our advantage.’ He swigged down his coffee. He always drank it black and boiling hot, with three sugars. ‘That’s originally how I wanted to finish the film, Sarah alone in the house once more with nothing but memories, her American lover dead, the mausoleum closing about her. But of course the producers demanded a happy ending, so soldier boy returns having survived the POW camp. Typical.’

His tone was scathing, and Sam again found his contempt an insult to Nick’s work. ‘I think the final scene where Sarah and her lover are reunited is beautifully written,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s very understated and moving.’

‘Well, of course it is, Nick’s a genius. Worked his tits off trying to lend a bit of magic to something so trite.’

‘And he succeeded.’ There was a definite touch of ice to Sam’s tone now. Strange how quickly one could go off Simon Scanlon, she thought.

Nick himself was grinning happily at the two of them. Dear Sam, he thought, being so protective, but in fact he never found Simon insulting. The two of them worked together far too well to offend each other, even when they disagreed. He didn’t bother saying so, though; Sam would get Simon’s measure soon enough. She was a perceptive and creative young woman, and, overwhelming though he might be, Simon Scanlon was no dictator, he welcomed artistic input from actors. He and Sam would make a formidable team.

‘The middle-class setting was Simon’s idea,’ Nick said, in order to put Sam at her ease and also to assure her of the egalitarian working relationship he and Simon shared. ‘I thought the Victorian father despising his daughter because she didn’t measure up to his dead wife was a bit too much like The Heiress myself. I initially wanted to make Sarah working class, but Simon was actually …’

‘The Heiress hardly went off to the New Hebrides to become a heroine to the natives,’ Simon scoffed.

‘… he was actually quite right,’ Nick continued, ignoring him completely, ‘it gave Sarah a far greater strength of character. A young woman exchanging a comfortable middle-class existence for a remote island in the South Pacific, a pretty brave move in those days.’

Sam was momentarily confused. ‘I thought you said Sarah Blackston was based on a real character?’

‘No, I said “Mamma Black” was based on a real character. Very loosely. She was known as Mamma Tack actually, and I’ve no idea who she was, but the stories abound in Vanuatu –’

‘Hardly relevant,’ Simon interrupted. ‘Back to business. Now about the father …’

He was possibly one of the rudest men she’d met, Sam thought, wondering why Nick was so unaffected, but then Nick had always been too nice for his own good.

‘… I really wanted to check this out with you first,’ Simon continued. ‘I don’t like casting actors who might not get on. Harmony amongst the cast. Most important. But your agent said you weren’t to be contacted at Fareham. He’s very protective, your Reginald Harcourt.’

What on earth was he talking about? Sam wondered, bewildered by his sudden change of mood. No longer overbearing, he seemed to be seeking her approval.

‘It only hit me several weeks after I got back from London,’ he went on. ‘We’d screen-tested for the father, but I hadn’t found what I was after. I wanted to cast an Australian actor of course, but I couldn’t find the true … I don’t know …’ he was uncharacteristically fumbling for the right words ‘… the innate Victorian pomposity that comes from an ingrained class system.’

Sam was now completely bemused. Simon Scanlon was not only one of the rudest, but one of the most contradictory men she’d met. Barking orders in shorthand one moment, then obscurely rambling on the next. She wished he’d get to the point.

‘The father appears a small role in the overall film,’ he continued, ‘but Clifford Huxley is a very important character, I’m sure you’ll agree. Pivotal to the development of Sarah. Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the night and I suddenly realised that I’d already seen Sarah Huxley and her father.’ Simon was leaning forward again now, elbows on the table, eyes once more electric with excitement. ‘I swear to you, Sam, I realised that I’d actually been watching Sarah and Clifford Huxley when I saw the two of you up there on that stage.’

The penny suddenly dropped. A Doll’s House. ‘Alexander Wright,’ Sam said.

‘Do you agree?’ Simon’s query was earnest and concerned. ‘The chemistry between the two of you is perfect. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.’

‘Yes of course.’ Sam was under his spell again. The man was a chameleon. Now she liked him, now she didn’t. But he was certainly right. ‘Alexander is wonderful casting,’ she agreed.

‘Wright by name, right by nature.’ Simon gave a bark of delighted laughter. ‘Alexander Wright is Clifford Huxley! I’m so glad you approve.’

‘Just as well,’ Nick added dryly, ‘he’s flying in tomorrow.’

 

‘Samantha! My darling doll wife,’ Alexander intoned as he kissed the air beside her cheeks. He was deeply grateful to Samantha Lindsay. She was directly responsible for a career breakthrough which, at his age, he’d presumed an impossibility. Alexander was eager to embrace Hollywood. He would never have admitted it, but treading the boards eight performances a week, albeit in the West End, had become rather tiresome. This was his big chance at the movie career which had, through no want of trying on his part, somehow eluded him throughout his life.

‘The old team, eh!’ he exclaimed, laying it on for all it was worth. ‘Husband and wife, now father and daughter. We are destined to work together.’

‘Alexander! It’s beaut to see you, it really is.’ She deliberately swung into the Australian vernacular as she hugged him warmly. She could read him like a book and she was aware his performance was all bravado, that he was hoping, indeed praying, she would welcome him like an old friend.

‘Oh my dear,’ he said, so overcome that for a moment he dropped his theatricality, ‘it’s lovely to see you too. It really is.’

Standing nearby in the production offices Mammoth had hired at Fox Studios, Nick Parslow gave Simon Scanlon an ‘I told you so’ look. Simon had voiced his worry about Sam’s personal opinion of Alexander Wright.

‘Her agent swears she won’t mind,’ he’d said. ‘But what if she can’t stand the man? He’s a good actor, but I hear offstage he’s a pompous old fart.’ As always, Simon had made his enquiries.

Nick had been quick in his reassurance. ‘You can trust Reginald, Simon,’ he’d said. ‘He knows what he’s talking about, and he always has Sam’s best interests at heart, he wouldn’t let anything interfere with her work. Or her personal life for that matter,’ he added knowingly. Nick and Reginald had become close friends, and both shared the deepest of affection for Samantha Lindsay.

Simon had deliberately called Alexander in first, eager to read Sam’s reaction, and half an hour later the other actors involved in the opening scenes arrived at the production office.

‘Mickey!’

There was an exuberant reunion between Michael Robertson and Sam the moment he walked through the door. They’d worked together in the theatre on many an occasion, including the production of Red Centre, and when Reg had told her that Michael had been cast as her missionary husband, Sam had been ‘over the moon’.

‘How amazing!’ she’d said. ‘I’m over the moon! I can’t think of anyone I’d rather work with. How utterly, fantastically amazing!’

‘Not really,’ Reg had said, ‘it’s the way he operates.’

‘Who? How?’

‘Simon Scanlon. He’d been favouring another actor over Michael, Nick told me, but when he found out the two of you were such good friends, Michael had the job, simple as that.’

‘Oh.’ Sam hadn’t been too sure how to take it; it didn’t sound right to her.

‘As far as Nick and Simon are concerned, Sarah Blackston is the crux of this film,’ Reg had said. ‘It’s the woman’s story and they want to concentrate on her, despite the lover and the POW camp, and Brett Marsdon and the American market. It’s the story of “Mamma Black”, Nick told me. And Mamma Black is you, Sam. Simon Scanlon will do anything to keep you happy.’

‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!’

Alexander Wright watched from the sidelines as the lanky actor whirled Sam off her feet. He had the distinct feeling that his proprietorial relationship with Samantha was being severely upstaged, but he tried his very hardest to look like an indulgent parent.

‘Alexander, this is Michael Robertson.’ Sam introduced the men personally, instead of waiting for Simon’s official introductions all round. ‘Two of my favourite actors,’ she said. And Alexander beamed, once again reinstated.

The moment did not escape Simon Scanlon. Samantha Lindsay was more than a bloody good actress, he thought, she was a bloody good diplomat. He couldn’t have been happier.

He made the formal introductions. There were three other actors playing the minor roles of household staff: the butler, the housekeeper and the maid.

‘Hello, Anthony. Hello, Fiona.’ Sam shook hands with them warmly. ‘Great to be working together again.’ Anthony Cole and Fiona Hedge were character actors who’d been around for years and, although their roles were never large, they were rarely out of work, particularly since the arrival of big-budget overseas movies. They were colourful troupers who, from the radio days of old, could handle any accent thrown at them. Both were thrilled that Sam recalled them from the guest roles they’d had in ‘Families and Friends’ when she’d been a teenager.

Ada, playing the maid, was unknown to them all, a young actress fresh out of drama school, but Sam greeted her with equal warmth, putting the girl at ease in an instant.

Jesus Christ, but Samantha Lindsay was a gem, Simon thought.

The first two days were devoted to discussion of the script, the characters and their relationships, and in the rehearsal room adjacent to the production offices the actors were encouraged to interact freely. Simon was not going to block any specific moves until they were in the studio set, he told them. He was very receptive to any suggestions from the cast, and was pleasantly surprised by Alexander’s perceptiveness.

‘Clifford is not unlike Torvald, is he?’ Alexander commented, referring to the character he’d played in A Doll’s House. ‘Not a bad man in the true sense of the word. Thoughtless and misguided, and very set in his ways, but even when he appears malicious, he doesn’t really intend to be, does he?’

‘Spot on, Alexander, spot on!’ Simon applauded. Alexander Wright might behave like a buffoon at times, he thought, but he certainly wasn’t dumb when it came to interpretation. ‘He’s a “right” man who sees the world only from his own perspective. It’s his insensitivity to those about him, particularly his daughter, which makes him so shockingly cruel.’

Two weeks had been allotted to shoot the opening scenes, after which they would relocate to Vanuatu where the American star, Brett Marsdon, would join them. Simon had deliberately orchestrated the proceedings so that the Huxley household would become a close-knit unit. The opening of the film, he said, was totally isolated. ‘A film within a film,’ he told them, ‘think of it that way.’ This was a conspiratorial household where the old servants had known the mistress before she died. They were fully aware of the father’s deep-seated dislike of his daughter, and the unspoken reason why: that Clifford Huxley had never forgiven his daughter for robbing him of his beautiful wife in childbirth.

‘But they’re not going to risk their jobs, are they?’ he said. ‘They’re not going to threaten the comfortable lifestyle they’ve had for over twenty-five years, so they’re conspirators. Only the young, newly appointed maid has no idea why Clifford Huxley is so contemptuous of his daughter. The maid is an innocent in a household destined to emotionally and psychologically destroy a young woman. The maid is, in many ways, the audience. Out there in the dark, discovering the secrets of the past as it’s unravelled before them.’

Ada was thrilled – she’d thought the maid was just a bit part. She hadn’t realised that her character was of such depth and importance.

It was one of Simon Scanlon’s greatest talents. He made every actor, no matter how seemingly trivial their role, feel valuable and indispensable to the production. And he did so because, to him, they were.

Then there were three days of meetings and discussions with designers, hairdressers and makeup artists, followed by costume and wig fittings, and at the end of the third day, Simon announced that they were moving into the set the following morning.

The cast had met the set designer, Rodney, a talented man in his mid-thirties, easygoing and affable, who had worked on the last three of Simon’s films. But no-one had been shown a model of the set, or even a ground plan of the layout. It was a deliberate ploy on Simon’s behalf.

‘We’ll meet at ten o’clock outside Stage 7,’ he said. ‘We’ll all go in together, and you’ll explore the home where you’ll be living for the next eleven days.’

 

Sam arrived at the studios the following morning a good half hour before the others. She always arrived early, having instructed her regular driver, an eager young runner called Ben, to collect her from the Quay Grand an hour before her scheduled call each day. After Ben had driven through the studio gates and past the guard house, she’d alight at Stanley Crick House.

The picturesque vine-covered building had been the Royal Agricultural Society’s members’ stand in the days before Fox had taken over the Sydney Showground, once home to Australia’s largest annual agricultural exhibition. It stood on the border between the two sectors which now constituted Fox Studios. On one side was the vast professional complex of sound stages and production offices, recording studios and editing suites, workshops, makeup departments and dressing rooms. On the other was Bent Street, the equally vast public area of retail shops and markets, cafes and restaurants, entertainment venues and art-deco cinemas.

Sam enjoyed wandering around Bent Street before the tourists arrived, exploring the shops, having a latte in an outdoor cafe and generally soaking up the atmosphere. To her, the whole of Fox Studios seemed a world unto itself, like a walled city, locked away from the realities of outside.

Today, however, she didn’t alight at Stanley Crick House, but instructed Ben to go directly to Sound Stage 7. She wanted to explore the exterior of the huge sandstone building which she’d admired from some distance, unaware that this was where they would be filming the Huxley house scenes.

Stage 7 was housed in a restored heritage pavilion and was the largest and most recently converted sound stage on the Fox lot, having opened for production only earlier that year. Sam looked up at the massive facade that had once been the main entrance to the pavilion. Wide stone steps on either side led to a portico supported by twin Ionic columns, beyond which was a large stained-glass window depicting a map of Australia. High above, in massive letters carved deep in the sandstone, was the inscription: ‘AUSTRALIA’S 150TH ANNIVERSARY COMMEMORATIVE PAVILION 1938’. It was a proud building.

She walked up the steps to the portico and looked out over the view. Below her were the myriad streets and shopfronts of the tourist sector, for all the world like a miniature village. Behind them to the right was the old stone clock tower and, rearing over a hundred metres high in the background, modern and strangely out of place, were the giant night lights of the Sydney Cricket Ground.

Sam found the perspective exciting. The odd mixture of styles and shapes, the blending of old and new, past and present, all added to the sense of anticipation she’d had from the moment she’d awoken that morning. There’d been enough discussion. She couldn’t wait to start work in earnest.

Half an hour later, when they all met at the rear stage door of the studio, there was the same feeling of anticipation amongst the others.

Simon and Nick led the way inside, followed by Rodney, the set designer, and the actors trooped in after them.

The immensity of the gutted and soundproofed interior was overwhelming. Nissen hut-shaped, 3,600 square metres in area, rising to a height of twenty metres, it looked exactly like an aeroplane hangar. But it didn’t house aircraft. Sitting solidly and incongruously upon the huge floor space was a Victorian mansion. There were two sets: the ground floor of the house, and behind it, the upper floor, enabling each to be lit from the lighting grid which was rigged high above.

‘Take your time and wander the sets,’ Simon instructed after he’d called up the work lights, ‘we’ll have discussions with Rodney afterwards. I want you to get the feel of the place first before we go into technicalities.’

Alexander, Mickey, Anthony, Fiona and young Ada continued to gaze about, awestruck. They’d never seen a studio so huge. But Sam wasn’t looking at the studio at all, she was staring at the set. They were facing the ground floor of the house, and there were three bay windows. She walked around the corner to the right; the main entrance would be on that side, she thought. It was. Several stone steps led up to a porch. She pushed open the front door and entered.

There was a small hallway with a coat stand and pegs on the walls. She crossed through it. The kitchen would be down several steps to the right. And there it was. A big kitchen, the hub of the house, cosy and warm. A large wooden table and bench, pots and pans hanging from pegs, and an open door leading to a narrow staircase. That would go up to the servants’ quarters, she thought.

She went back towards the hall and turned right again, into what she knew would be the drawing room. She felt as if she was in a dream. That it wasn’t happening, that at any moment she might awake. A surreal experience, dreamlike and yet hauntingly real. She was in Chisolm House.

The drapes were drawn over the bay windows, but there was a chair and table beside them, as if someone made a habit of sitting and gazing out at the garden. There was an escritoire in the corner, converted gas lamps in wall brackets, gold-leaf framed mirrors. She looked about, unnerved. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. There was a fireplace. There was a mantelpiece with a framed photograph perched in the centre. The only thing missing was Phoebe’s portrait. A tapestry hung in its place.

‘You seem to know your way around.’

She was startled by the voice beside her. ‘Sorry?’ she said, shocked back to the present.

‘You headed straight to the main entrance,’ Rodney said. ‘You seem to know your way around.’

Sam heard the other actors. They’d found their way to the front door and were now exploring the kitchen, she could hear their ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of admiration.

‘I do,’ she replied. Her brief sense of panic was gone, but she still felt shaken as she gazed around at the walls and the fireplace and the bay windows. ‘I own this house,’ she said.

Rodney grinned. ‘Taking method acting a bit far, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not joking, Rod,’ she said. ‘I bought a house in Hampshire only a month ago. It’s identical.’

‘Oh, this is a pretty stock Victorian design,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s nineteenth century houses like this all over England.’

‘But the electrically operated gas lamps, the mirrors, the escritoire in the corner …’

‘A lot of them converted their gas lamps to electricity, love,’ he assured her. She seemed a bit shaky, he thought. ‘Gold-leaf mirrors were all the rage in Edwardian days, and face it, where else would you put the escritoire?’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Sam agreed, trying to sound casual. ‘Just a coincidence.’

‘ ’Course it is. Don’t let it rattle you.’ He grinned again; Rodney rarely took things seriously. ‘Besides,’ he added, rolling his eyes dramatically, ‘you can “use it to your advantage”, as Simon would say.’

‘Yes, I can certainly do that,’ Sam smiled. ‘But don’t say anything to him, do you mind?’ She chastised herself. The similarities between the set and Chisolm House were purely coincidental, just as Rodney had pointed out, and it was foolish of her to dramatise the situation.

‘Sure, no worries.’

‘The set’s divine, Rodney. A masterpiece!’ Alexander was leading the troops into the drawing room.

‘Thanks, Alexander. What do you think of young Clifford?’ Rodney crossed to the mantelpiece and picked up the framed photograph. ‘It’s come up pretty well, I think. Archie spent half the night working on it, he wanted to surprise you.’

Sam, having stood back and drawn breath in order to recover herself, joined the others as they gathered around to admire Clifford Huxley and his beautiful bride. The wedding photograph was an important prop, and the photo shoot had been held just the previous day in a private studio.

It had been a nerve-wracking experience for Alexander. Not at first. At first he’d felt resplendent in his youthful makeup, his impeccable wig and his finely tailored Edwardian costume. The wardrobe and makeup team had spent two hours working on him and he’d been thoroughly convinced that he looked not a day over thirty-five, as was the intention. Then he’d been confronted with the girl who was to pose as his wife. She was all of twenty-two and one of the most glorious creatures he’d ever seen. His confidence had been instantly undermined. Dear God, but he’d look like a stupid old fool, he’d thought. He’d covered his humiliation with bluster, made the customary remarks about ‘old enough to be your father, my dear’, secretly knowing he was old enough to be her grandfather, and he’d dreaded seeing the final result. Now here it was. He held his breath.

‘You look wonderful, Alexander,’ Fiona said admiringly, Anthony beside her nodding in emphatic agreement.

And he did. Young and handsome and thirty-five. Alexander glowed with a mixture of pride and relief. ‘Yes, it has come up rather well, hasn’t it?’

‘How did he do it?’ With a youthful lack of diplomacy Ada was looking from the photograph to Alexander and back again in disbelief. ‘How on earth did he do it?’

Alexander suddenly didn’t like the girl.

‘Archie’s a genius,’ Rodney said, and Alexander was about to dislike him too, until he continued, ‘Just look at that lighting and the grain of the reproduction, you’d swear that’s an Edwardian photograph.’

‘Yes, it’s a work of art all right,’ Alexander agreed.

‘Who’s the girl?’ Mickey asked. ‘She’s gorgeous.’

‘Suzie someone,’ Rodney said. ‘She’s not an actor, hasn’t even done any modelling. Simon wanted an unknown and she had the look he was after.’

‘What a pity we weren’t allowed on the shoot,’ Mickey said regretfully, casting a cheeky look to Sam. He was known to have a roving eye and she’d knocked him back on many an occasion in the past. Since he’d accepted their relationship was to remain platonic he’d often shared his lustful feelings with her. They made a joke of it.

But Sam didn’t return his glance. She was staring at the photograph, another sense of déjà vu stealing over her. There was no baby Phoebe in the photograph, certainly, but the pose was the same. The formal portrait. The husband standing, proprietorial hand resting upon the shoulder of his wife seated in a hard-backed chair. And the wife was a darkhaired beauty. It was Arthur and Alice Chisolm.

Together, they explored the upper floor of the house, and as they did, Sam tried to ignore the persistent similarities between the set and Chisolm House. The tiny rooms at the rear were the servants’ quarters with a shared bathroom and a small communal kitchen. The three large front rooms with bay windows were the master bedroom, Clifford Huxley’s study and the upstairs drawing room. An upright piano stood in the far corner of the drawing room, which again unnerved her, but she registered, with a vague sense of relief, that nothing else was familiar to her. Then she reminded herself that this was more than likely the way Chisolm House would have looked in the days of Arthur and Alice, which only added to her nagging feeling of déjà vu.

‘Everybody got the feel of the place?’ Simon had reappeared with Nick, takeaway coffee cups in hand, having left the actors alone to explore the set. ‘Right. Over to you, Rod.’

Once again they walked each room, Rodney explaining the technicalities, pointing out which walls were ‘floaters’, removable to allow camera access, and Sam was relieved to find herself back in the make-believe world of film.

They loosely blocked each scene, like rehearsing a stage play, Simon giving them their moves and key marks, encouraging them not to perform but simply to feel their space. It was a relaxing way to start work and Sam felt very much at home with his method of direction. He intended to film in sequence, and tomorrow they would shoot the opening scene.

 

Sam was called for hair and makeup at seven in the morning and, having arrived a good fifteen minutes early, she sat in her dressing room with the coffee which Ben had obligingly fetched her, and started on the Sydney Morning Herald’s cryptic crossword. But it didn’t make sense this morning, she was far too excited to concentrate. She picked up her script, but that didn’t help either. She knew her lines backwards and seeing them on paper meant nothing. Then finally she was summoned to the makeup room and her day began.

Two hours later she looked at herself in the mirror. The wardrobe and wig fittings, the discussions with Simon, the makeup artist’s experiments, all had come to fruition. She was looking at Sarah Huxley.

The hair was a mousy light brown, parted in the middle and tied loosely in a bun at the nape of the neck. The skin colour was pallid, bordering on unhealthy, and the powdered-down brows and lashes robbed her eyes of drama, giving them a timid look. She was dressed in a grey suit, with a high-necked jacket and mid-calf-length skirt. Modest and conventional, it was nonetheless of fine wool and well cut. Despite the year being 1935 and the country being in the throes of a depression, Clifford Huxley was a wealthy man and dressed his daughter in only the finest.

As Sam looked at Sarah Huxley in the mirror, she knew that she had the character. She watched herself shrink. She saw the uncertainty creep into her eyes and, as her shoulders imperceptibly hunched, the suit, now sitting on a defeated young woman, no longer looked well cut.

When she arrived on set, with the wardrobe, hair and makeup entourage, Simon was quick with his compliments. ‘Well done, team,’ he loudly announced, ‘you’ve turned a beautiful young woman into a mouse,’ and they all beamed with pleasure. But Simon could see that the defeat of Sarah Huxley was coming from within. ‘Good girl, Sam,’ he whispered. And, like the others, Sam found herself beaming with pride. Simon Scanlon had that effect upon people.

Simon called up the lights and the actors gasped in awe. The opening scene was set in the downstairs drawing room and the facade of the set had been wheeled away to expose the interior. A ceiling had been hydraulically lowered; it was a night scene and Simon wanted the effect of the chandelier.

The chandelier. Night-time at Chisolm House, Sam thought. Then she saw the portrait. It was hanging on the wall to the left, perfectly lit between two gas lamps. She walked over to it – they all did – quietly lost in admiration. It was a work of art. Simon had planned it as a surprise for them all.

‘The mistress,’ he announced when they were all gathered about the painting. ‘Clifford’s wife Amelia, she rules Huxley House. Isn’t she magnificent?’

There was a spontaneous round of applause and everyone turned to Rodney who gave a mock bow, accepting the compliment, but like all of the others who’d received praise from Simon, he too was secretly glowing with pride. He’d worked long and hard on the portrait, the same model who had posed for the wedding photograph sitting for him day in, day out. He might as well have been working for the Archibald Prize, he’d thought. But Simon Scanlon’s approval had been all he’d needed. The applause of the cast was just the cream on the cake.

Only Sam remained gazing at the portrait. She was thankful it wasn’t Phoebe. She didn’t know if she could have taken that. There was no rebellion, no provocation in this woman. She was neither teasing nor tantalising, but there was a power about her. It was a formal studio portrait. Hands crossed on the lap, she was impeccably groomed, her luxurious auburn hair conventionally parted in the middle and drawn back behind her neck. But her eyes met the artist in a steady, confident gaze. There was a strength and serenity in her beauty.

This was Amelia Huxley, Sam thought, not Phoebe Chisolm. But she was in the wrong place.

‘She should be over the mantelpiece,’ she said.

There was a pause. Sam’s voice had been peremptory and the others were taken aback, particularly Nick Parslow. It wasn’t like Sam to be dictatorial.

‘She’s absolutely beautiful where she is,’ Alexander said with a touch of disapproval. It wasn’t up to actors to change the set, he thought.

‘I put her there so that she’s the first thing you see when you come into the room,’ Rodney explained. ‘I thought that’s what Clifford would want.’ He looked at Simon who nodded approval. ‘Besides, she can’t go anywhere else,’ he added good-naturedly, ‘the lighting’s all rigged for her where she is.’

‘Amelia Huxley should be over the mantelpiece,’ Sam repeated.

There was another pause. They were all starting to feel uncomfortable.

‘Sam’s right,’ Simon announced. Samantha Lindsay was affected by the portrait, he could tell. He didn’t know why, but anything that worked for actors worked for Simon Scanlon. ‘Amelia goes over the mantelpiece.’

‘It’ll take us a while to re-light her,’ Rodney said.

‘Fine by me. Everyone to their dressing rooms. We’ll call you when we’re ready.’ As they trooped out of the studio he whispered in another aside to Sam, ‘Good girl. Use it. Use it.’

She looked at him, surprised. Did he know? But he didn’t.

‘Whatever you’re feeling, Sam,’ he said urgently, his pterodactyl eyes disappearing into slits, ‘use it. It’s working.’

She would, she thought, as she went back to her dressing room. She’d use Phoebe and Chisolm House. She would tell no-one, not even Nick. But whatever strange force was coming into play, and there was certainly something, she wouldn’t let it frighten her. She would use it in whatever way she could.

 

Over the ensuing ten days, Simon Scanlon became obsessed with Samantha Lindsay and her performance. Something was driving the girl. He didn’t know what it was and he didn’t care, but she had metamorphosed before his eyes, and she was taking the others with her. She was inspired. As she looked up at her mother’s portrait, longing to be beautiful like Amelia, longing to earn her father’s love, she was achingly moving. The portrait became the centre of the household, and Sam had been quite right, Simon thought. Amelia belonged above the mantelpiece.

Sam was aware of the force that was driving her. She found herself living in two worlds. She partied with the others, enjoying their company. She walked around the harbour foreshores and through Hyde Park, revelling in the beauty of Sydney. On the weekend, she browsed through the markets at the Opera House and the Rocks. But the moment she arrived on set, she found herself in that other world. The world of Huxley House where no daylight penetrated. Where the drapes remained closed, upon Clifford Huxley’s instruction, and Amelia’s chair, a constant reminder of her presence, remained beside the bay windows where once she’d sat looking out at the garden.

The set and its eerie replication of Chisolm House no longer unnerved Sam. She accepted its claustrophobic embrace the moment she entered it, feeling herself instantly become Sarah. The house was her ally.

‘May I invite Mr Blackston to dine after the service next Sunday, Father?’

They were seated at each end of the large oak dining table, Sarah and her father. The dining room was adjacent to the downstairs drawing room, just as it was at Chisolm House. It had a similar bay window, and twin doors at the rear led directly to the servants’ stairs and the kitchen. Sam was glad that she’d never dined with the bed and breakfast guests at Chisolm House all those years ago, as it meant she held no memories of cosiness or familiarity that might interfere with the awkward distance between herself and Alexander.

‘You are mistress of this house, Sarah.’ Clifford’s tone was scathing. ‘You have no need to beg my permission. You are free to invite guests whenever you wish.’

There had been discussion in a previous scene of the Reverend Hugh Blackston. Sarah, skilled in flower arrangement, visited the local church each Saturday afternoon and prepared the floral arrangements for the Sunday services. Clifford had noted that, over the past several weeks, she had come home an hour later than usual. Curiosity had finally won out and he’d asked her why.

‘I take afternoon tea with Mr Blackston,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Father.’

‘God in heaven, girl, you’re twenty-five, you’re at liberty to see whomsoever you please.’ Clifford hated her servility.

And now she was asking the man to dine at Huxley House. Clifford was intrigued as to the intentions of Hugh Blackston – surely he couldn’t be interested in a mouse like Sarah. He had personally met Blackston on a number of occasions following the Sunday services he and Sarah attended, but he’d taken little notice of the man, just as he took little notice of anything connected with the church. He attended the services simply because it was proper that he should be seen to do so.

‘The Reverend Blackston is a most interesting man, Father,’ Sarah said in response to his enquiry, Clifford suspiciously noting an uncharacteristic animation in her eyes. ‘He is shortly to leave for the New Hebrides where he is to serve as a missionary.’

In accordance with the script, the budding relationship between Sarah Huxley and Hugh Blackston was never seen. Everything was contained in the house. And the buildup to the arrival of the Reverend Hugh Blackston was electric. The tension between father and daughter perfect, the housekeeper and the butler suspicious, like their master, of the Reverend’s intentions, the maid simply thrilled by the prospect of romance.

Simon Scanlon was delighted. Alexander was scaling new heights working with Sam. And so were the others. Fiona and Anthony and Ada were equally inspired.

‘Welcome to Huxley House, Mr Blackston.’ It was a wintry night and they stood around the cosy open fireplace in the downstairs drawing room, just the three of them, as Clifford proposed the salutary toast.

‘Thank you, Mr Huxley.’ Hugh raised his glass, returning the salutation. ‘She’s very beautiful, your mother,’ he said to Sarah of the portrait which was impossible to ignore.

‘She was. Oh yes, she most certainly was,’ Clifford replied, as if the remark had been addressed to him.

‘I can see the resemblance.’ Hugh smiled encouragingly at Sarah. He wasn’t lying, he had seen the same strength in Sarah’s eyes that he now saw in the portrait. But she had wilted in her father’s presence; he’d noted the same reaction after Sunday services when the three of them had met.

Sam looked at the love and encouragement which shone in Mickey’s eyes. He was a fine actor and he was giving her everything. She felt herself flush. The blood literally rose to her cheeks and she stared at the floor, avoiding Alexander’s penetrating gaze. Sarah was fearful that her father might read the love that unashamedly welled inside her.

Clifford watched his daughter’s embarrassment. He felt her cringe. And so she should, he thought. ‘I hardly think so,’ he scoffed. How dare Blackston pretend to perceive a likeness between Amelia and his mouse of a daughter. The man was a charlatan, he decided there and then. Who would have thought it? A man of the cloth. After his daughter’s money.

The scene in the dining room was even more fraught with tension, the servants hovering, at Clifford’s encouragement, as he repeatedly undermined Sarah.

‘We had such dinner parties here in the old days,’ Clifford said, ‘didn’t we, Beatrice?’

‘We did indeed, sir.’ The housekeeper smiled, then darted another quick look of warning towards the maid who should have been serving the trifle instead of staring at the Reverend as she had been doing throughout all four courses of the meal.

‘We don’t any more,’ Clifford continued. ‘Sarah’s not quite up to it. And a house needs a mistress for that form of entertaining. Isn’t that so, Billings?’ he asked as the butler poured his glass of dessert wine.

‘It is, sir,’ Billings agreed.

‘Perhaps Sarah doesn’t wish to entertain,’ Hugh gently suggested, deciding that it was time someone took a stand. He ignored Sarah’s horrified glance.

The man’s tone may have been mild, but the essence of his comment was not. ‘What exactly does she wish then, Mr Blackston, can you tell me?’

‘I do believe that she wishes to marry me, Mr Huxley, and I’d be most grateful if you’d agree to the union.’

The words were out before Hugh could stop them. He and Sarah had agreed that he would meet her father and then, over the customary port and coffee in the drawing room, delicately approach the subject. But Hugh had decided that Clifford Huxley was a tyrant who enjoyed bullying his daughter and the sooner Sarah was away from him the better. They would marry with or without Huxley’s consent.

‘That will be all, thank you,’ Clifford dismissed the servants, and Beatrice nudged the maid, who was openly gawking. When they had retired to the kitchen, closing the doors behind them, Clifford took a sip of his sauterne before continuing. ‘You realise that if I withhold my permission you will be marrying a penniless young woman.’

‘So be it,’ Hugh replied. ‘Your daughter’s money is of no interest to me, sir.’

‘Pray then, what is?’ Clifford sneered, glancing briefly at Sarah, who sat in silence, eyes downcast.

Hugh said nothing, but leaned towards Sarah and reached out his hand. She and her father were seated in their customary places at either end of the table, Hugh in the middle. To clasp his hand Sarah herself needed to lean forward and extend her full arm. It would be a gesture of total defiance.

Clifford, who had ignored his daughter throughout the brief exchange, now turned his full gaze upon her, daring her to so openly flout his authority.

She didn’t hesitate, but reached out her hand. ‘I love him, Father,’ she said and, as her fingers entwined with Hugh’s, she abandoned her father. ‘And I will go with him to the New Hebrides as his wife.’

Clifford was speechless. Shocked by her brazen audacity. He took another sip of his sauterne as he fought to recover himself. He wanted to throw the glass of wine in her face. The ingrate. She had robbed him of his Amelia, and yet he had done his duty by her throughout her entire miserable existence. She’d had the best schooling money could buy, she wore the finest clothes, ate the finest food, she lived a life of luxury, and now she was going to desert him. Who would look after him in his twilight years? She owed him that much, surely.

‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘Well, there’s really nothing more to discuss, is there?’ He rose from the table.

They were right on schedule, and the day before the film unit was to leave for Vanuatu, they shot the brief final scene between Sarah and her father. Sarah had left Huxley House with Hugh that same night of the confrontation, and had been staying with his sister who lived in nearby Worthing. There had been further scenes shot in the house, mirroring the decline of Clifford Huxley, a defeated man, aware of how sorely he would miss his daughter, but too proud to beg her forgiveness. Now she had returned to say goodbye before sailing for the New Hebrides.

There was to be a wrap party after the shoot that day, and the others came in to watch the filming of the final scene. Huxley House had had its effect upon them all. It was as if they’d been making a separate film – ‘a film within a film’, as Simon had instructed – the work had been so intensely personal.

‘Sure,’ he agreed when they sought his permission to watch the filming. ‘Check it out with Sam and Alexander, and stay out of their eyelines of course, but so long as they don’t mind, it’s fine by me.’

Sam and Alexander didn’t mind one bit. Sam thought it was amazing that Mickey, Fiona, Anthony and Ada should come to work when they had the day off, and Alexander was secretly delighted. An audience out there in the dark. He’d missed an audience.

‘You haven’t shaved, Father.’ Sarah was shocked. She’d never seen him unshaven.

‘I forgot. I awoke late this morning.’ He hadn’t shaved in the whole three days since she’d left. ‘I’ll ring for tea.’

‘No, please don’t bother.’ She didn’t want to see the servants. ‘I only came to say goodbye.’

‘I thought as much.’

She crossed to him where he stood by the mantelpiece, wondering whether he would kiss her farewell, but he didn’t. He was a tall man and it was impossible for her to make the gesture without him offering his cheek, so she proffered her hand instead.

‘Goodbye, Father.’

‘I shall not disinherit you of course, Sarah,’ he said as he shook her hand. ‘It was never my intention, I was simply testing the man.’

‘An unnecessary test, as it turned out, but thank you.’

What was it about her? he thought. There was a confidence, even a boldness that he’d never before seen, but there was something else. Then he realised. She was no longer plain. When did that happen? he wondered. And how? His mouse of a daughter. There was life in her eyes, pride in her bearing, she looked womanly and alive.

‘When do you leave?’ he asked.

‘We sail from Southampton the day after tomorrow,’ she replied.

‘You’ll marry in the New Hebrides then?’

‘We were married yesterday.’

So that was it, he thought. She’d discovered love, she’d become a woman. Of course that was it. He thought of Amelia. ‘I shall miss you,’ he said, avoiding her eyes, staring into the fireplace instead.

‘No you shan’t, Father.’ She didn’t say it unkindly, but the words sounded brutal nonetheless. ‘Why should you miss the millstone you’ve had about your neck all these years?’

He looked at her then. ‘Is that what you were?’

‘Yes.’ Suddenly, she felt an aching pity for him. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be my mother.’

‘You’re all I have left of her, Sarah.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.’ She reached up and touched his cheek, but he didn’t lower his face for her to kiss it. ‘Goodbye, Father.’

She was gone, and Clifford looked up at the portrait of his wife, tears welling in his eyes.

‘Cut!’ Simon called. ‘That’s a wrap,’ he announced to the crew. ‘Well done, Alexander. Very moving. Well done.’

The final shot had been a closeup on Clifford, and the makeup artist had been standing by with a menthol blower to induce tears, but Alexander hadn’t needed it. Sam had joined the others, watching from the sidelines as they’d changed lens for the closeup, and she’d been his inspiration. God but he loved an audience, Alexander thought.

There were cheers from the crew and embraces all round and Simon made the final announcement.

‘Party as long as you like tonight,’ he said. ‘But don’t miss the plane tomorrow. Vanuatu, here we come!’