101 Pieces of Me Read Free Page B

had given me the opportunity to rescue myself.
    Back in Haverth, they would be waiting for my triumphant return. For a few days their expectations would remain. But then I would receive another letter from Mr Bunniford, which I would burn in the kitchen range before Mam or Da or Frank could get hold of it.
    Crumple. Whoosh. Crackle. The end of my adventure.

B ut the letter I expected did not come. Instead, I received one on creamy paper embossed with gold. It was from David Penn Productions, of 110 Strand, London WC1, and it offered me employment as an actress in a film to be made at Shepperton Studios over the next few months. Again, a form had been enclosed for my parents to sign, and when they returned it, another, bigger collection of papers arrived. This was an official-looking contract, full of incomprehensible words.
    Da took it to Mr Mord Williams, a lawyer friend in Aberystwyth whom he considered very learned. To my mind, anyone who did not know as much poetry as my father could not possibly be his superior in learning. But Mr Williams pronounced the contract legally sound, charging us half a crown for his services, and Da and I duly signed and returned it. Mam said the cream-and-gold letter was beautiful enough to frame, so she did exactly that and put it on the wall of my bedroom. By mid-June, I was on my way.
    And I was no longer Sarah Freebody. Another letter had come from the production company telling me, to my delight, that I would be known as Clara Hope. And it was full of that hope that I stepped into the car that brought me from the Savoy in the Strand to another well-appointed hotel, this one in the country, by the Thames.
    Jeanette, the woman who had been at my screen test, was waiting for me at the Thamesbank Hotel. “David Penn sent me,” she explained, “to make sure you settle in all right, and that you have everything you need.” When I asked if she was going to be my chaperone, she said, laughing, “I wouldn’t call it that! But I am here if you need me. I do whatever David wants, and sometimes what he
doesn’t
want!”
    A few sleepless hours later, in the mist of a summer dawn, a different car collected me and delivered me to Shepperton Studios. And my new life began.

I will try to describe what took place during those first few days at Shepperton, as I remember it happening, in the right order. But films, like the dreams my father’s poet compared them to, do not lend themselves to order. Time in dreams shifts backwards and forwards, and images come and go, and so it is with the making of a film. Unfamiliar sights, people, language and experiences tumbled like a kaleidoscope, and dazzled me.
    As soon as I entered the studio on that first day, the man whose banal questions about my train journey had encouraged me during my screen test strode towards me, extending his right hand with an expectant look. “Miss Hope? I am David Penn.”
    “Oh!” I shook his hand. “So that was
you
!”
    “You seem surprised,” he said, smiling.
    “Um…” I was embarrassed, but found myself so struck by his appearance that I could not look away. I had seen him before, of course, but I had not seen his smile before. It covered his entire face, from his eyelashes to his ears, from his hairline to his moustache. He carried the fact that he was the best-looking man in the room with ease, from the collar of the jacket draped over his shoulders to the tips of his brogues. For the second time, I was charmed by his attention. “I
am
a little surprised,” I admitted. “You are such an important person, I—”
    “And you are not?”
    My embarrassment increased. I did not know what to say.
    “Very well,” he said, “I will cease making you uncomfortable, and instead I will welcome you most humbly to David Penn Productions and Shepperton Studios. I trust you are being well taken care of?”
    “Oh, yes! Very well, thank you.”
    “Splendid.” He looked around the studio, then turned back to me. “Miss