Page 95 of The Gathering Storm

His mood lifted a little as the train travelled slowly north, away from the bleak mountains and into a green and fertile land, away from the sights and smells and concerns of war and into a landscape of agriculture and rural affairs. He thought of England, and considered where he should go when he got back there. Not to the office, not yet, not to Aunt Molly’s. He did not want to be with anyone who would want to talk about the war and what he had achieved – which was absolutely nothing. People had died, a land had been convulsed, and for what? He could not believe that it would end well for the Spanish people, whichever side won. But he could not talk about any of it, not yet. His hand was injured; and his heart hurt. There was one person who would welcome him, respect his silence, would always accept him, whatever his worth. He would go home to his mother.

Lineman’s was a well-kept secret in Los Angeles – a small, discreet restaurant just off Wilshire Boulevard where important Hollywood people ate on the rare occasions when they didn’t want the attention of the press. Lennie went there sometimes for a quick solo lunch, because they did the best Reuben sandwich outside New York. He had finished and was on his way out one September day when he heard his name called, and turned to see, to his surprise, Al Feinstein beckoning from a corner table.

The surprising thing was that Feinstein was alone. Lennie couldn’t have imagined him ever being allowed to be alone. He was as recognisable as the Eiffel Tower or the Leaning Tower of Pisa, as impossible to hide; and there was hardly anyone in Hollywood who wouldn’t have wanted something from him if they’d spotted him. In that moment Lennie realised fully the awfulness of fame and was glad he was largely unknown. He changed direction and went across to him. ‘Al! Lunching alone?’

‘They just left,’ Feinstein said, waving a cigar in the direction of the door. ‘Coupla nice gals up from Ohio, wanting an audition.’ His merry eyes gleamed from their nests of wrinkles, challenging Lennie to make something of it.

‘Oh,’ said Lennie. He knew of Al’s reputation. Though he was probably too fat and too bronchitic now actually to get into the saddle, he did still like a little canoodling when he had the chance, with chorines and eager ingénues who wanted to get into films. It was reprehensible, of course, and Lennie was glad he had not come upon him sooner, and perhaps have felt obliged to warn the girls, risking a scene.

Al waved him to a seat. ‘Siddown, I want to talk to you. What’ll you have? They do a great custard tart here. They call it torta della nonna.’ His Italian accent was surprisingly good for a man who pretended Philistinism.

‘Thanks, I’ve just eaten.’

‘Coffee and brandy, then,’ Al said, waving to a waiter, then again at Lennie. ‘Siddown, you’re making the place untidy.’

Lennie gave in. He wanted to hear what Al had to say, in any case. Rose’s agent, Forrest Van Kerk, was friendly with David B. Reznik, ABO’s lead director, who had an interest in Rose’s career and had discovered what he thought was an ideal script for her, a thriller called Into the Night. He and Van had together taken it to Feinstein and persuaded him to take it on, with Rose as the ordinary Brooklyn housewife who finds herself under attack, first by anonymous telephone calls, and then increasingly sinister and troubling incidents. Since most of the action happened in one indoor location, with a small cast, production costs would be low, and Lennie would not be required to put a lot of money into it. And it was a good dramatic part for Rose, not in the mainstream mould of The Falcon and the Rose, but a good way to bridge the gap between the westerns and the big Shakespeare role Al had been promising. Lennie hadn’t heard any more about that for a while.

‘How’s the Shakespeare project coming along?’ he asked, as the waiter put coffee and brandy in front of him. He refused Al’s silent offer of a cigar. ‘Have you decided yet? Is it Twelfth Night?’

Al waved it aside. ‘My guys rewrote it a whole bunch, but it still reads like a dog’s breakfast.’

‘It’s a celebrated part of Shakespeare’s canon,’ Lennie said, with slight reproof.

‘Gave me a headache figuring out who knew who was what and when. And if I can’t figure it, what chance the audience will? Romeo and Juliet it ain’t! I wish we’d got to that little honey before Cukor grabbed it. Can’t do it again for five years, minimum.’

‘Well, what about As You Like It? The Merchant of Venice? A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’ Lennie urged.

‘I got my doubts about all of ’em. As You Like It’s the same mess all over again. And the Merchant thing? If I wanna do a courtroom drama I’ll set it in present-day New York. Wait, that could work!’ A costive look indicated the arrival of an idea. ‘Did you see The Witness Chair? Or Jean Arthur in The Defence Rests?’

Lennie refused to be distracted. ‘Is that what you’ve got planned for Rose after Into the Night?’

‘Who said I’m making Into the Night?’ Al said, narrow-eyed.

Lennie was not impressed. ‘You did. In your office two – three? – weeks ago. I can look up the date, if you really want me to. I remember you talking about it using the studio capacity nicely until you were ready with the Shakespeare project. You said—’

‘Yeah, yeah, don’t have a conniption. You’re like a cat with one kitten. I like Into the Night okay. Like I said, it’ll keep things ticking over until the big production – the spectacular, box-office-busting extravaganza. Listen to this, you’re gonna love it. It’s the bee’s knees, it’s got action, romance, every damn thing, including a great part for Rosie. How d’ya like this, Len?’ He blocked the title across the air. ‘“Shakespeare’s Robin Hood, with Rose Morland as Lady Marian”.’

Lennie blinked. ‘Shakespeare didn’t write Robin Hood,’ he objected.

Al looked belligerent. ‘How do you know?’

‘Nobody wrote it. It’s a legend.’

‘Legend, schmegend! Guys in tights, bows and arrows. If that’s not Shakespeare, I don’t know what is!’

‘And it’s Maid Marian, not Lady Marian.’

‘I don’t like “Maid”. Sounds like she’s gonna start cleaning the bathroom! “Lady” is classy. And I’ve got a great actor for Robin Hood. One of Hollywood’s best: Dick Randolph!’

‘I heard you’d poached him from MGM,’ Lennie said.

Al looked pleased. ‘You heard that, did you? It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. But the old man’s still got it where it counts. Anyway, Dick’s perfect for this Robin guy. He’s tall, hunky, and he can do an English accent.’

Lennie groaned inwardly. ‘Al, you’re not going to do this with English accents? It never works.’

‘Why the hell not? It’s Dick Randolph’s speciality.’

‘I’ve heard him,’ Lennie said, ‘and the accent he does is not English, it’s more like Welsh.’