Confessions of a Film Extra. Timothy Lea
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did she?’
‘She never liked anyone except herself.’
‘It says here she’s considering a number of film roles,’ says Mum, who is still studying the papers. ‘She wants to be an all-round entertainer. There’s talk of her going to Hollywood.’
‘More like Neasden Rep,’ snorts Rosie. ‘She can’t do anything.’
‘Don’t look at me, Dad,’ I say. ‘I never found out.’
Most of the papers treat the affair as a put-up job and the police reaction has been less enthusiastic than that of firemen being called out to a false alarm at a waterworks. When I have read the dailies it occurs to me that I am being a bit premature in writing myself off for a job with Dominic Ralph. The worst headline is ‘Was it Rape or a Lovers’ Tiff?’ Most of the others look on the funny side in a way that makes me wish I could have shared their merriment at the time. All in all it occurs to me that I might give Dominic a ring and see where I stand.
In fact I do not stand, I grovel. And even that does not do any good. I ring Dominic at the studio where no one can find him, and at his flat where the phone is answered in an accent that makes Kenneth Williams sound like Richard Roundtree.
‘Who is that?’ minces the voice. ‘I’ll just see if he’s still in.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m most terribly sorry but he’s just popped out. Can I take a message?’
‘Yes,’ I snarl. ‘Tell him to turn off his bleeding electric razor. I can hardly hear what you’re saying!’ I jam down the receiver and compose myself to plan my next move.
I am not getting anywhere particularly fast when I light upon the card that the hated Miss Mealie gave me. This is probably another load of rubbish but anything is worth pursuing in my present situation. The first number on the card rings without reply, but the second is answered instantly.
‘Dukley, Barchester and Rideabout,’ says a very toffee-nosed voice, ‘gee-ood morning.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ I say, ‘I was after Trion Productions.’
‘Justin Tymely?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s on the floor at the moment, shooting.’ Blimey! I think, she’s very cool about it. I wonder why I cannot hear any shots.
‘I’ll ring the police,’ I say. The receiver is half an inch from the rest when I hear squawking coming from it.
‘What are you talking about?’ says the upper-crust voice tightly. ‘He’s shooting a film at the Sheppertree Studios!’
‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘I thought – oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him there. If you have any contact with him, tell him a window cleaner rang.’
‘Don’t go down to the studio,’ says the bird exasperatedly, ‘we need you here. The windows are filthy.’
‘I’m not a real window cleaner,’ I say. ‘Well, I am, but not at the moment. I’m an actor window cleaner, Timothy Lea.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re coming if he rings in, Mr Lea,’ says the voice icily and the line goes dead.
I am looking forward to visiting a real live film studio but by the time I get to what seems like the other end of the Home Counties, my enthusiasm is waning a bit. The buildings that greet my eye look like derelict hangars and I have not seen anything less impressive since I worked at Melody Bay Holiday Camp.
‘Mr Tymely,’ I say to the peak-capped geezer on the gate. ‘Mr Justin Tymely. He’s a film director.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I don’t know. Something with a window cleaner in it.’
The gatekeeper shakes his head and consults a list pinned beside his hatch. ‘Up the Ladder, Jack,’ he says finally. ‘Does that ring a bell?’
‘Probably what I want. Where do I find him?’
‘Straight down as far as you can go, then turn right, second left.’
Fifteen minutes later I find myself outside a metal sliding door with ‘Stage 5’ painted on it. There is also a red light and a sign which says ‘Do not enter when light is flashing’. The light is flashing so I wait obediently. Five minutes pass and it has just started to rain when two youngish men come round the corner. They are dressed in painters’ overalls and for a moment I make the stupid mistake of thinking that they are painters. Their conversation soon disabuses me.
‘So I said to him, I says, “If Crispin is going to have one then I’m going to have one”. Well, I mean, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Stupid old faggot didn’t know what I was talking about. Can you imagine? Ooh, I could have sunk my nails into him. Sink! Sink! Sink! I know you say I over-react to things –’
‘I never said that! That I did never say. I said you were sensitive.’
‘Well then!’
My contact with the conversation vanishes as the newcomers ignore the red light and disappear into the hangar. There is obviously no point in waiting about outside so I depress the lever and go in after them.
‘Oiy! Can’t you read?’
I am being addressed by a large red-faced man wearing a dirty plaid shirt and paint-spattered trousers.
‘I’m sorry. I was following those two.’
‘Sssh!’ hiss the two gay blades who are now scowling at me as if I have started cracking walnuts under my arm during a palace reception.
‘You use your eyes!’ says the big man.
I nod vigorously and upon enquiring after Mr Tymley’s whereabouts, am directed round the back of what looks like a hastily erected pre-fabricated shed. This must be the set, I think to myself and peer through one of the windows with interest. A pretty, long-haired blonde girl wearing a mini skirt is being embraced by yet another man dressed in painter’s overalls. As my pulse quickens he slides his hand inside the girl’s blouse and begins massaging one of her breasts as if he is trying to smooth it into her chest. Saucy! I think to myself. Obviously Mr Tymely makes a pretty explicit movie even by modern standards. The girl opens her eyes, sees me and gives a little yelp.
‘Ooh, Ron!’ she says.
Ron turns on me angrily. ‘Bugger off!’ he says. ‘Go on, hop it before I give you a thick lip! Bleeding peeping toms!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say urgently. ‘I thought –’ But there does not seem a lot of mileage in telling Ron what I thought, so I leave him and his lady friend to get better acquainted and push on to an intersection between piles of props ranging from choir stalls to bar fittings. This, at last, must be where the action is, because I can actually see a camera. Standing beside it is a greasy-haired individual with cheeks and chest like a retired pouter pigeon that has gone to bird seed. He is shaking his head at a tall, slim young man who has a mane of hair flowing from halfway down the back of his head, the upper part of that article being bald as an egg. The tall geezer is wearing faded denim from head to toe and has an expensive-looking silk scarf bulging from his neck.
‘All right, all right,’ shouts Lofty, ‘Sellotape her nipples! Jesus Christ, isn’t there a woman in the whole of London who can erect her nipples? When the hell are we going to get something in the can?’
‘Jim,’ says Greasebonce, ‘do her nipples, will you?’ Jim is playing cards with half a dozen painters and stagehands and seems irritated at being disturbed.
‘Oh, bleeding heck,’ he says, throwing down his cards. ‘That’s extra, you know, Sellotaping nipples. Extra.’ He drags himself to his feet and advances onto the set.
‘Bloody