Tangled Tapestry

Miss Powell smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not important. Around the studios he’s extremely well known, of course. He has directed quite a lot of movies, but your being English makes quite a difference, of course. You may get to meet him. He’s a nice man.’

Debra nodded, and they continued with the tour. The children were shown the various cameras used for different shots, the instant video-tape recording machine, and one or two of them even rode on one of the camera dollies. At the moment nothing was happening, but Miss Powell explained that later in the morning some filming would be taking place. The children were fascinated with seeing themselves on the closed-circuit television screens, while from time to time they recognised a familiar face walking across the sets. Much to Sheralyn’s and the rest of the girl’s disappointment, Ross Madison, the star of the detective series, did not appear, although his leading lady, Marcia Wayne, did, and she signed some autographs before retiring to the control office.

Miss Powell suggested they went along to the restaurant for some coffee, and cokes for the children, and Debra agreed. In the restaurant there were many more familiar faces, and even she recognised a star of his own variety show, Barry Willis. It was around this time that Debra became aware that she was attracting a great deal of attention.

It wasn’t so much the fact of being stared at that troubled her, but rather the sensation of being discussed, rather thoroughly. Some of the older men, who she presumed were camera crews, seemed to find her positively magnetising to look at, and she flushed with embarrassment and said to Miss Powell:

‘Is it my imagination, or are all these people staring at me?’

Miss Powell glanced around. She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

Debra sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound ridiculous. It’s just a feeling I have. Maybe they don’t see parties of children and their teacher visiting the studios every day.’

Miss Powell laughed. ‘Heavens, there are frequently visitors coming round. I think you’re probably imagining it.’ She looked critically at Debra. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. Has no one ever told you so?’

‘Oh, heavens, no!’ Debra felt worse than ever.

Miss Powell narrowed her eyes. ‘Are there no men in England? Or do you live in a convent there?’

Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I don’t have much time … for that sort of thing.’

‘I thought London was the swingingest city in the world,’ remarked Miss Powell mockingly.

‘Valleydown, where I live, is thirty miles from London,’ returned Debra swiftly. ‘Anyway, this is hardly the kind of conversation we should be having. Will we be returning to the studios?’

Miss Powell smiled and accepted the rebuff with good grace. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’ll go back. I promised Mr. Morley that the children should see a little of the actual shooting going on.’

Back in studio seven, Emmet Morley was already on the set giving final instructions to his cast. When the sound of the children entering came to his ears, he came over, smiling expansively, a huge cigar hanging from his mouth. Debra looked at him with interest. He was the first director she had seen, and the fact that he had directed films pointed to his being more important than she had imagined. He was of medium height and veering to plumpness, but he had a charming smile, and used it to good effect. He grinned at Miss Powell, said, ‘Hi, Lucy,’ and then looked at Debra.

At once his expression changed. His amiable approach gave way to a disbelieving glare, and something like recognition flickered in his small eyes. He swept the cigar out of his mouth and narrowed his lids, then ran a hand over his forehead, up to the receding line of his hair. Then he said:

‘Your name. What’s your name?’

Debra was taken aback, and glanced desperately at Lucy Powell. But Lucy merely looked surprised too, and Debra answered: ‘Debra Warren, Mr. Morley.’

He studied her appraisingly, replacing the cigar in his mouth and gnawing at it abstractedly. The children were staring too, now, all wondering what was going to happen, and hoping for some excitement. Debra felt terrible. In the restaurant she had felt as though she was being stared at, but this—this was much worse. Why on earth did Emmet Morley stare at her like that, and why didn’t he hurry up and say something and get it over with? The whole studio seemed conscious of the small scene being enacted just inside the wide doors, and a strange hush had descended.

Lucy Powell eventually broke the silence by saying: ‘This is the schoolteacher from Filbert, Mr. Morley. The English girl who is over here on the exchange scheme.’

Morley drew heavily on his cigar, gathered his thoughts, and lifting his shoulders in a helpless gesture, said: ‘Yeah, the English teacher from the High School.’ He glanced round thoughtfully. ‘Go on looking around, kids! Lucy, do me a small favour, will you? Take charge of these kids for five minutes. Give me a moment to speak to Miss … er … Warren, in private.’

Lucy looked taken aback, and not particularly pleased. ‘Mr. Morley, I have other visitors to show round after this party has left——’ But she was left talking to herself, for ignoring her protests, Emmet Morley had determinedly taken Debra’s arm, and was propelling her across the studio floor, past the interested eyes of the camera men, to a small office at the back of the studio. Debra herself tried to protest, but Morley merely said:

‘Relax, kid, relax! No one’s going to frighten you. I only want to have a small talk with you. Right?’

‘I suppose so.’ Debra could hardly refuse without causing an embarrassing scene. Besides, what could happen to her? The office was glass-panelled, and all eyes would be on them, anyway.

The office held a couple of easy armchairs, a low desk and several telephones. Emmet Morley seated himself behind the desk and waved to one of the armchairs. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’m not going to eat you! You look positively petrified!’

‘Well, quite frankly, I am rather nervous,’ she said, subsiding on to an armchair, and then seeing that by doing so she was out of sight of the rest of the studio because the glass panelling only started some three feet from the floor, standing up again.

‘You’ve no reason to be so,’ remarked Morley impatiently. ‘Good God! Sit down. What on earth experience has made you act like this? Did some guy attack you, or something?’

Debra stiffened her shoulders. ‘Of course not. It’s merely that all this is beyond me, and I wish it were over and done with. I can’t think what we have to say to one another. Everybody is staring at me as though I were a freak or something! Do I look like a freak?’

Morley’s hard features relaxed into a smile. ‘Anything but! You’re a particularly attractive girl. Surely you know that without me telling you? Sure you do. Even a girl like you couldn’t be so dumb!’

‘And is that all this is about?’ exclaimed Debra disbelievingly.

Morley hesitated. ‘More or less,’ he muttered evasively. ‘Now, will you sit down?’

Debra did so unwillingly, and accepted a cigarette from the box he offered to her. After it was lit, Emmet Morley studied her silently for a while before saying:

‘What part of England do you come from, Miss Warren?’

Debra shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have heard of it. It’s a place called Valleydown, in Sussex. It’s actually about thirty miles from London.’

‘I see. And your parents? Do you live with them?’

‘No. My parents are dead.’

Emmet Morley leaned forward interestedly. ‘Is that so? How did they die?’

Debra frowned. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’

‘Just answer the question, Miss Warren,’ muttered Morley impatiently.

Debra compressed her lips in annoyance. What right had this man to speak to her so peremptorily? But she still answered him, albeit a little sulkily. ‘They were killed. In a train crash. When I was just a baby.’

‘So? Go on, who brought you up?’

‘You want my life history, Mr. Morley?’

‘More or less, Miss Warren. Go on … please.’

Debra sighed. ‘I was brought up by my aunt, Aunt Julia, that is.’

‘I see.’ He lay back in his chair. ‘Tell me, kid, what do you know about Elizabeth Steel?’

‘Elizabeth Steel?’ Debra shook her head. ‘Why, hardly anything. I mean, I know she was very famous, and that she was killed in a plane crash, but that’s about all. Why?’

Morley did not answer her. Instead he said: ‘She was famous, very famous, as you say. And very popular, too, if a little conceited sometimes. Her death was a tragedy for us all. She was only forty-three, and no one could have guessed even that. She was at the peak of her career.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That happened a little over ten years ago, when you’d have been—how old?’

Debra thought for a moment. ‘Twelve, I suppose.’

‘Hmn! Interesting, very interesting.’ Morley’s eyes were uncomfortably intent.

Debra lifted her shoulders. ‘Mr. Morley, what is all this about? I mean, you invite me in here, you want to know my life history and now you start asking me about some film star who’s been dead over ten years! I mean, it just doesn’t add up. I’m sorry this Steel woman is dead, of course. But I don’t see what I have to do with any of it.’