101 Pieces of Me Read Free

door, taking a long time to polish his boots. “The tall one was Preston, the camera operator. Bunniford was the director.”
    “
Mister
Bunniford to you, boy!” The corners of Da’s mouth turned downwards, and he nodded approvingly at the page. “Director!”
    “Can I go, then?” I asked him, as patiently as I could. “Can I go to Middlesex, like he says, and be in a film?”
    “Whoa there, girl!” said Da. “He does not say anything about you being in a film, now, does he?” He squinted at the writing and began to read aloud the paragraph that had almost stopped my heart.
“Your recent newsreel appearance was seen by the notable film producer and director, David Penn. He has requested that I invite you to attend a screen test at Shepperton Studios, Middlesex, as soon as is convenient.”
Da looked at me over the top of the page. “And where might Middlesex be? I thought they made films in London.”
    “It’s
near
London,” said Frank. “It’s where the film studios are, like it says.”
    Da did not look convinced.
“As you are under twenty-one years old,”
he read on,
“would you please seek permission from your parents. If they are agreeable, I would be grateful if they would sign the enclosed form and send it back to me at the above address. I remain, Miss Freebody, your humble servant, George Bunniford, Newsreel Director.”
    “A screen test is a sort of audition,” I ventured.
    “I know what a screen test is.” Da gestured with the letter towards Frank. “Living with you and this boy, with your film magazines and whatnot, Mam and I can’t help knowing more than we want to about the whole daft business.”
    “It’s not daft, Da!” Frank’s flushed face looked up from his polishing. “If Sarah was in the films, we’d be rich! We could live in America, and I could have a motorcycle, or even a motor car!”
    Da chuckled and tossed the letter back to me. “Ask Mam. She’ll know what’s best.”
    I went and kissed the top of his head.
Ask Mam
was halfway to
yes
.

“H old the board a little higher, if you will, Miss Freebody. That’s much better.”
    Click. Squawk
.
    “Thank you. You can give the board to Jeanette now. And while we’re getting ready for the next photograph, would you show me your smile? That’s right, smile as if you mean it!”
    Click. Squawk
.
    “Now, would you turn your head to your left and lift your chin? Very nice.”
    Click. Squawk
.
    “And now the right side?”
    Click. Squawk
.
    “Now, we’re going to film you using the moving picture camera. Jeanette, would you hand the board back to Miss Freebody? Thank you.”
    I took the board, which said
SARAH FREEBODY, D.O.B. 11.5.1907
, and pressed it to my chest. Behind it my heart beat fast. I hoped the make-up that had been put on my face would hide how much I was perspiring. The lights that a young man had arranged in front of me were hot and very bright. They were so bright, in fact, that the man instructing me was invisible behind them. His attempts to “put me at my ease”, as he said, had failed. I had never felt so unsure, so detached from real life, nor so excited.
    “Ready?” came the disembodied voice.
    “Yes, I believe so,” I replied.
    “Er, Miss Freebody, I was actually addressing the camera operator.”
    “Oh, sorry!” Perhaps the make-up would conceal my blush, too.
    “We shall be taking moving pictures of you, my dear,” continued the voice kindly, “so you must
move
. Do whatever you wish, letting us see you from every side, including the back. Keep moving. And don’t look at the camera.”
    The camera began to work, not clicking and squawking like the one that had taken the still photographs, but making a loud whirring sound, like the wings of an enormous bird. Of course I looked at it. Jeanette, who was perhaps ten years older than me and wore large earrings and her hair in a mass of waves, came and removed the board. I tried to smile at her, but she took no notice.
    The camera was