The New Generation

16

The New Generation

    The very last series of The Captain’s Daughter was going to air—Georgia’s description of it was “putrid” in spite of the fact that it starred her, and Rupy didn’t know that he altogether disagreed with her, though he himself had some very funny lines and some excellent Noël Coward numbers: well, no intrinsic interest, really, in the match-making efforts of the married Daughter down at her country cottage, was there?—and now they were starting on The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation. Yes, they had actually called it that. Of course the entire staff of Henny Penny were calling it “The Next Generation” and could you blame them? Weren’t Them Up There going to cop it in the neck for copyright infringement? American copyright infringement? Rosie reckoned not, but what would she know, she was preggy and deep into her sociology stats. And hardly ever showing her nose at the flat any more except for Mark Rutherford’s stupid monthly staff meetings, not doing any tutorials this term, so she didn’t even need to sleep over, and lovely Molly hadn't taken Miss H.’s flat next-door, because she wanted to stay near Micky’s school, and everything was horrid! Well, almost everything. Darling John had come up a couple of times for meetings at the Admiralty, in his winter uniform, to die for—and what that was about was anyone’s guess—but apart from that everything was pretty well putrid.

    The rows over the Look had started at Henny Penny already, even though nobody had as yet seen even a whisper of a script, and they’d even started the costumes! While they were still rowing over the Look? Typical!

    It was very early, in fact appallingly early. Did Derry imagine he was filming on location, or what? No-one had ever heard of having to go to Wardrobe at this hour of the morning, before you’d even seen a script! Early though it was, the sounds of A Big Row floated down the corridor of Henny Penny Productions.

    “That’s Varley shouting,” ascertained Rupy, cautiously opening the door.

    “Not Derry Dawlish?” replied Ruth, the Wardrobe lady.

    “No, his voice is much deeper, dear.” He listened, but was unable to pick up anything except the sound of shouting, so he closed the door again. “Well, I have to admit I don’t know whether that’s good or bad!”

    “No. Try this one on, Rupy.”

    “Ugh, what is it?” he gasped.

    “Battledress, I think Terry said,” replied Ruth vaguely. “Well, we just make them up the way they tell us, Rupy!” she said with a laugh.

    “But the Navy doesn’t wear this sort of gear!” he gasped.

    “I think they do, these days,” offered Ruth’s helper, Jilly. “It’s The Next Generation!” She collapsed in sniggers.

    “See?” said Rupy with a sigh. “Everybody’s gonna be calling it that, you know.”

    “Oh, well, so much the better,” said Ruth briskly. “Wasn’t that the one that was a terrific success, unlike all other sequels ever? Or don’t I mean it?”

    “Yes!” gasped Jilly in horror. “Of course! Patrick Stewart!”

    “That’s right: that’s the one that Rosie likes, he looks very like John,” conceded Rupy. “Too macho for me, dears,” he explained, pulling a face. “Well, I’ll try this thing on, but don’t expect it to look good!”

    He tried it on. It looked appalling.

    “It is a waste of his figure, Ruth,” offered Jilly.

    “Ours not to reason why,” she said heavily. “Get that sea jersey, Jilly.”

    “Ooh, am I going to—That’s just like John’s horrid woolly,” said Rupy numbly.

    “It would be, he’s with the modern Navy,” returned Ruth grimly. “Get into it.”

    “But it’s shapeless!” he wailed. “And I haven’t got John’s shoulders, it’ll be disastrous!”

    “Terry said those that wanna be in the new series have gotta wear the proper gear,” replied Ruth, completely unmoved.

    Glumly Rupy got into it. It looked disastrous.

    After a moment Jilly offered: “I think Varley’s still shouting.”

    “Oh, goody,” replied Rupy sourly.

    The Wardrobe staff exchanged glances and tacitly decided not to pursue that topic.

    Of course he was through miles too early for the stupid cast meeting: the thing was, Brian Hendricks’ staff were efficient, a word never heard of at the mighty empire of Double Dee Throw-The-Moolah-Away Mighty Movie Productions. So he went off to the canteen, he was too depressed to venture down the road to the Tea Shoppe, it was no fun without darling Rosie. She really appreciated it, and lovely Kathleen who ran it, and its plastic blue gingham tablecloths and real chrysanths out of Kathleen’s garden and vanilla slices. The canteen’s vanilla slices weren’t nearly as good so he didn’t take one, but chose a pink-iced cake instead, even though he was ninety percent sure it’d taste like tinder. Tinder.

    “’Ow are you, Rupy, ducks?” beamed Jasmine from behind the counter.

    “Appalling, Jasmine, dear. How are you?” he sighed.

    “Fine!” said Jasmine with a giggle. She looked round for Madge but there was no sign of her so she just charged him for the cake, not the coffee.

    “Ta ever so, dear. Would you believe they’re going to make me wear camouflage droopy-drawers?” he said deeply.

    “Ugh,” said Jasmine sympathetically. “The fing is, it’s the modern Navy, Rupy.”

    “So they tell me.”

    “What are you?” she added.

    Taking this in the spirit in which it was meant, Rupy replied: “Not a clue, dear! Haven’t seen the whisper of a script! Nobody tells me anything! And if you think camouflage droopy-drawers give any indication of one’s rank, think again!”

    “Don’t they ’ave fings on the shoulders?” said Jasmine, rapidly overcharging a very up-market serious actress who was in that new drama mini-series that Brian Hendricks mistakenly imagined was going to make his name as a serious artistic producer, and informing her that they didn’t have any sweetener, it was sugar or nothing.

    Personally Rupy always found he needed a sugar belt in between filming sessions—or being screamed at, you could put it like that, too—but he said in a puzzled way: “Thought you did?”

    “Yeah,” said Jasmine indifferently, producing a small basket of packets of Extra from under the counter. She shoved it back. “Can’t stand ’er. She asked for a slice of lime in ’er mineral water and when I said we don’t do that she told me what she gets at the ruddy BBC.”

    “Jasmine, darling, drying-out sarnies with their corners turned up are what one gets at the BBC, in my experience!” he gasped.

    “There you are, then,” replied Jasmine grimly. “Anyway, don’t they?”

    “Eh?”

    “The camouflage gear. ’Ave fings on the shoulders.”

    “Oh! Dunno, dear. These didn’t, they only had buttons. Horrid buttons,” he said grimly. “Not brass.”

    “It’ll be a flop,” predicted Jasmine.

    “You said it!” A crowd of new customers had come in—camera and sound crews, he knew most of them, that was dear little Derek—so he said heavily: “See you, dear,” and moved off to an empty table. Naturally dear little Derek didn’t come and join him. Rupy sighed.

    “Hullo, again.” said a deep voice with a smile in it. “Mind if I join you?”

    He looked up quickly. Ooh, gosh! Andrew Mc-Something from Sheila’s, the one that Georgia had taken one look at and gone into a flat spin— Ooh, heck!

    “Or I could just go away again,” he said, grinning. “Andrew Mackie. We met at Sheila Bryant Casting, Mr Maynarde.”

    “Yes! Of course, Andrew!” he gasped. “Do sit down. And call me Rupy. Never tell me you’re going to be in The Next Generation?”

    “The New Generation, isn’t it?” he said, grinning and sitting down. “So they tell me.”

    “So you’re the new love interest!” he gasped.

    Andrew shrugged, looking very wry. “A bloke has to eat.”

    “What? Yes, didn’t mean that. My God, does Euan know?”

    “Euan Keel? Think so. Derry Dawlish invited me to a fancy Greek lunch towards the end of last year, he was at that. Seemed to be quite pleased that the pressure was going to be taken off him.” He eyed him drily. “Two blondes, two boyfriends, I think is the idea, Rupy.”

    “Two dark boyfriends?” croaked Rupy.

    “Yes, that’s what they said,” agreed Andrew Mackie calmly. He tore open his packet of sweetener.

    Rupy was transfixed. “Jasmine gave you the Extra?” he whispered.

    “Eh? The fat Black woman at the cash register? Yeah; why not?”

    Why not, indeed! There was very little wrong with Jasmine’s hormones, and she had three different-coloured kids to prove it. Possibly the new series would not be a complete flop, after all.

    “Aunty Sheila ordered me to lose ten pounds and keep it off: the camera’s very fattening,” he said, terrifically dry.

    “Oh, yes, of course, Sheila’s your aunt!” blathered Rupy. He was positive—absolutely positive—that Georgia didn’t know he was going to be in it! Oh, lawks! “Um, what?” he said lamely.

    “I said, have you seen a script?”

    “We humble supporting players do not receive scripts in the great D.D. scheme of things, dear,” he explained acidly.

    “D.D.? Oh: Derry Dawlish. But I thought Brian Hendricks was producing it?”

    Rupy sighed. “He is. Derry has proposed, seconded and accepted himself as director. Until he gets bored with it. He’s never done a telly series, he’s got no idea of the constant daily grind for months on end.”

    “Right. So you don’t know if these blondes are going to be twins or what the story is?”

    Uh… What had Garry Woods told him? It was so long ago that he couldn’t remember. Ah! There was darling Molly! She might know! He waved frantically. Molly smiled and waved back from the end of the long queue.

    Andrew Mackie, Rupy saw with terrific interest, had gone rather red. “Is she going to be in it? I mean, it is the cousin, is it?”

    “Of course. And she is, yes. Have you been to Wardrobe yet?”

    “Yes, just now. They issued me with fatigues, that what you wanted to know?” he said, grinning.

    “Are those what could be loosely—I use the word advisedly—termed camouflage droopy-drawers?” he asked acidly.

    “Yeah!” said Andrew with a laugh.

    “Was that all? No lovely uniforms with gold braid on the sleeves?”

    “Eh? No. They did take some ruddy rude measurements, though: places where a chap’d never have thought a tape-measure would go, if you get my drift. I got the impression they were for bell-bottoms. I think they want me to be a rating, Rupy.”

    “A rating? That cannot be right, dear!” he gasped in horror.

    Andrew shrugged. “Well, admittedly in your show I never saw a rating do anything more than dance the can-can. Not that I saw much of it—though the messes were full of tapes of it.”

    It was hard to know what part of this to reply to first. Had he said something at Sheila’s about having just come out of the Navy, or not? The aftermath had been so stressful that he couldn’t— “Yuh— Uh— Not the can-can, Andrew, the hornpipe! Messes? Were you in the Navy?”

    “Yeah. Ordinary Seaman.”

    Rupy gulped. And he was so nicely spoken, too!

    “And it was the can-can in the episode I’m thinking of,” he said drily. “Frilly knickers. Horrible hairy legs in fishnet tights.”

    “Good heavens, the ship’s concert! That was the very first episode!” he cried.

    “Mm. It was quite well done, but I have to admit I got tired of counting the clichés,” he said drily.

    What? He was obviously an intelligent boy: why on earth had he been an Ordinary Seaman? “Why did you join the Navy, Andrew?” he croaked.

    Andrew grinned. “I joined the Navy to see the world. Wanna knew what I saw?’

    Brightening, Rupy carolled: “‘I joined the Na-vy, to see the world, And what did I see—’”

    “‘I saw the sea!’” Andrew joined in, in the loveliest baritone, Rupy almost dropped in his tracks.

    “Betcha don’t know the next line!” said a soprano voice with a laugh in it, and Molly joined them, smiling. “Hi, Rupy.”

    “There you are at last, darling, you were ages!”

    “Jasmine was asking me about Micky. She’s nice, isn’t she?”

    “Of course, dear! Henny Penny do not hire not-nice canteen ladies! You’ll find all the permanent staff are lovely, it’s only the occasional person brought in for a special part,”—he eyed the serious actress balefully—“that consider themselves far, far above we common folk.”

    Molly turned round and looked. “Oh,” she said mildly, turning back, “it’s not Euan.”

    Rupy choked. He laughed so much that his eyes ran and he had a coughing fit and had to gulp down the last cold remains of the horrible canteen coffee. “Ooh!” he gasped, patting himself on the chest. “That was too wicked! And, dare I say it, darling, ungrateful.”

    She looked dry. “Well, not very. He did make it very clear that I couldn’t hope to come up to his standards of taste in food, wine, art— Um, I forget the other junk!” she said with her merry laugh.

    “Dump him, darling. Go on to better things.”

    “I don’t think I’ll have to, Rupy, I think he’s pretty well lost interest. Last time I was down at the cottage it was pretty much of a flop. He’s bought himself a huge chest freezer and he invited me specially to eat some sort of game stew that Terri made back at New Year’s—what are those English birds, again? People shoot them. And there’s a man in Bellingford that raises them like chooks.”

    “Pheasants?”

    “That’s it! I kept thinking partridges, but I knew that was wrong. He was very disappointed when I didn’t like it. He did tell me a lot about appreciating game but I didn’t understand a word of it. Terri seemed to be completely on his wavelength, though. If he could bring himself to take up with a girl that works as his cook, I think he could be very happy with her,” she said detachedly. “But it’s a question of if, isn’t it? –I’m awfully sorry,” she said to Andrew, smiling at him. “We’ve been blahing on about people you don’t know, haven’t we? I haven’t seen Rupy since Christmas, you see. I’m—”

    “I know,” he said huskily. “I saw you at Sheila Bryant Casting.”

    Molly smiled nicely. “There’s always a crowd there, isn’t there? Some of them look so shabby, too, poor things: you wonder how they hope to get parts, really.”

    “I must say,” agreed Rupy, “one has the same thought every time one sits in an agent’s waiting-room—not that I do very much of that these days!” he added hurriedly.

    “No, of course not, Rupy!” she said with her warm smile, wasn’t she lovely? Looked so incredibly like Georgia—much more so than she had done a few months back, Brian had evidently told her to lose a stone—but there was no comparison! Why on earth silly Luke had got so interested in aggressive little Georgia was beyond him!

    “So you’re going to be in it?” Andrew was asking eagerly.

    “Well, Mr Dawlish and Mr Hendricks told me I’ve got the part, yes, but they didn’t exactly say what! They wanted me to do a lot of accents when they gave me my test.”

    “Can you?” he said, smiling.

    “Of course! And she can mimic anything!” cried Rupy. “Do lovely Dame Judi being M!” he urged.

    “That really isn’t amusing, Double Oh Seven,” she replied immediately.

    Andrew gasped, and clapped.

    “Thanks,” said Molly, grinning. “Tisn’t really clever, ’cos I don’t know how I do it, I just do it.”

    “It’s a gift!” he smiled.

    “Yes, she’s a natural,” said Rupy with satisfaction.

    “They seem to want me to do a posh English accent for the series, but they haven’t explained why.”

    “Join the club,” said Andrew drily. “They haven’t explained a thing to me, either.”

    “He’s going to be one of the lovers, dear,” explained Rupy. “But whose, is anyone’s guess.”

    “Yeah. Is it about twins, or possibly cousins?” he asked, smiling eagerly at Molly.

    She shook her head. “You know more than I do!”

    “Surely Derry mentioned twins to you, darling?” cried Rupy/

    She looked dry. “He’s been mentioning twins, not to say triplets, since Queensland, Rupy, and absolutely none of it has made a word of sense.”

    “Yes, well, one stops listening, Andrew,” he admitted.

    Andrew grinned. “Yeah. So who’s slated to be the other twin, triplet or cousin? Miss Rayne?”

    “No, no, dear!” said Rupy on a testy note. “Darling Rosie’s retired! And she’s having another baby—due in June, and if it’s a girl they might call it that: pretty idea, isn’t it?”

    “Er—yes,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, Rupy: who’s Rosie?”

    “Lily Rose Rayne—she’s our cousin,” said Molly, smiling. “She’s always been called Rosie in the family. Lily Rose Rayne’s her stage name.”

    “I see. But if she’s retired, then who—”

    “My sister, of course. –There is she is now!” She waved. “With the corgi: see?” she said to Andrew.

    He had seen: he was transfixed.

    “Now for the acid test,” noted Rupy. “Will Jasmine give her the sweetener?”

    They watched breathlessly as Georgia approached the cash register—though Rupy didn’t kid himself that on the goggling Andrew’s part it was because of the Extra. There was a short confrontation and then the beaten Jasmine was seen to produce the basket. Georgia paid and came over to them, looking completely composed. Rupy had time to reflect that it must be put on: she couldn’t have failed to notice Andrew and never mind all that interest Luke had shown at Christmas time, he was too old and too down-market and even if she did fancy him Georgia was not the girl to let herself fall for a knockabout fellow that didn’t want a decent job. Um, if he was Luke and not his brother, that was. Not that that scenario bore thinking about, really.

    “So you got the Extra out of Jasmine, dear?” he said somewhat limply.

    Georgia shrugged. “Her little Hitler act doesn’t impress me.”

    “Darling, she isn’t! Not dear old Jasmine!” he gasped. “She’s hiding it today because la-de-da Fenella James is in for that intellectual mini-series Brian’s convinced is going to make his name as a serious producer!”

    “Whatever.” Georgia sat down, looking composed. “Sit!” The unfortunate Roger sat, was there a dog in Britain that wouldn’t have?

    “You have got him trained up, Georgia!” smiled Molly admiringly.

    “Georgia?” gasped Andrew.

    She glanced at him indifferently. “Oh, it is you. Chosen a name yet?”

    “But I thought you were Georgia!” he gasped, looking at Molly.

    Oh, lawks! Georgia had gone very, very red.

    “No,” said Molly, looking at her sister in some dismay. “I’m her sister, Molly Leach. We are very alike, but my face is rounder.”

    “Not so much since Brian made you lose that stone, dear,” said Rupy very, very faintly.

    “That’s right. I think it must have been Georgia you saw at Sheila Bryant’s, Andrew,” she said kindly.

    “Yes,” he croaked. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Leach!”

    “Molly,” she corrected kindly. “That’s okay, it was a natural mistake.”

    “Then—then there are three of you,” said Andrew limply, not looking at Georgia at all. Oh, crumbs!

    “Rosie, Georgia and me? Yes. Well, our cousin Dot looks very like us, too. We are all the same height, with very similar figures. But if you sat us down in a row you’d see that we’re not identical, by any means. It’s largely the colouring and the general shape of the face.”

    “And the way the hair grows,” said Rupy faintly.

    Molly touched the tiny fair ringlets that fell perfectly naturally over her forehead. “Yes. We’ve all got these curls that you can’t do much with. Dot had hers cut very short at the back last year but they still went their own way at the front. They madden Georgia, she usually slicks hers back with loads of gel, don’t you?” she said, smiling at her stony-faced sister.

    Andrew just nodded numbly.

    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fool you,” said Molly nicely.

    “No!” he gasped, very red again. “Of course not! Please don’t apologise!”

    “I should have made sure you realised,” admitted Rupy, recovering himself slightly.

    “I don’t see,” said Georgia in a hard voice, “that you’re responsible for his mistakes, Rupy. This coffee’s putrid, as usual. –Have you chosen a name?”

    “Oh! Yes! I’m so sorry, Miss Rose. Andrew Mackie.”

    “I told you it’d work,” she said calmly.

    “Yes; Aunty Sheila liked it,” he said numbly.

    “Yes, well, she’s got common sense,” said Georgia with the slightest of emphases on the “she”; she was getting good, you had to admit it, noted Rupy feebly. “Would you mind awfully not staring? Though I suppose we’ll have to get used to it.”

    “I’m so sorry!” he gasped, turning scarlet.

    Rupy took a deep breath, “You most certainly will have to get used to it in the Business, dear, and, dare I say it, the sight of the two of you together is even attracting a certain amount of attention in this canteen, where everyone’s seen pretty well everything the mad telly moguls can dream up.”

    Georgia ignored this superbly but Molly looked round the Henny Penny canteen. “Oh, help!” she said with her lovely laugh.

    “You’re not alone, Andrew,” said Rupy kindly.

    “No,” noted Georgia, looking down her nose. “I suppose it’s some sort of a gauge of popular reaction. We might have known Derry and Brian wouldn’t get it wrong.”

    “Georgia, stop it,” said Molly in a low voice. “It was a natural mistake.”

    “Apparently, yes. He thought I was Rosie, at Sheila’s, come to think of it.” She got up. “Brian wants to see me before the cast meeting—excuse me, won’t you?” she said graciously. not meeting anyone’s eye. “Come on, Roger! Heel!” And she sailed gracefully away, followed not merely by the cowed corgi, but by the eyes of the entire canteen.

    There was dead silence at their table.

    Finally Rupy ventured: “One can always tell it’s Georgia by the way she dresses. That black suit’s new, but it’s typical: very sharp cut. She wears a lot of black and white. Molly’s style is very much softer, more feminine, you see?”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Andrew weakly. “I’m not much good at women’s clothes, I’m afraid. Of course I do see now…” His voice trailed off.

    “When one has made a complete ass of oneself—don’t look at me like that, Molly darling, of course he has, and as I do it all the time I can speak as an expert—the only remedy is pink cakies all round,” said Rupy on a firm note, getting up. “I’ll get them.”

    “Rupy, I shouldn’t, what about my diet?” said Molly faintly.

    “One cake cannot possibly hurt it,” he said, escaping to the counter and the comfort of the smiling Jasmine.

    Andrew looked cautiously at the charming, pleasant Molly, asking himself sourly why the Hell he’d imagined for one moment she was the girl he’d met at Sheila’s. “He’s right, I have,” he admitted ruefully.

    “Don’t take any notice of Georgia,” replied Molly firmly. “I’m afraid it’s gone to her head a bit, having Derry Dawlish pick her for the New Daughter.”

    “It doesn’t seem to have gone to your head, Molly,” he said drily.

    “I’m just an afterthought!” said Molly with her lovely laugh. “I rather think—though for Heaven’s sake don’t say so to Georgia, will you?—that Derry’s original idea was to have her double the parts. Then he found that she isn’t really very good at accents: she sweated blood to sound like Rosie in the series that they’ve just made, between you and me and the gatepost—so as I was over here anyway, he fell back on me!”

    And a pleasant sensation that must have been! concluded the renamed Andrew Mackie, smiling at her. “Well, I’d say he’s going to be very pleased with his afterthought, Molly. May I ask if you’ve had any acting experience?”

    “None at all.”

    He sagged. “Thank God! I won’t be the only one! Well, I’ve done amateur stuff, and Aunty Sheila—sorry, did I say Sheila Bryant’s my aunt? She landed me a part in a festival last summer—”

    By the time Rupy came back with fresh coffees all round and the pink-iced cakes they were chatting away animatedly. Well, Andrew was very animated, but Molly, smiling her lovely smile, had that tolerant look on her face he’d spotted her using at Anna’s opening at The Green Apple, when that unknown young man had come and foisted himself on her. Kindly and tolerant. Oh, lawks. Not that it would be any better if she had fallen for him as hard as silly Georgia only too evidently had, in fact it would probably be worse. He sat down heavily, reflecting that making The New Daughter was going to be even more fraught with dangers—shoals and those other nautical things, John would know—than making Rosie’s series had been, when all they’d had to contend with was the fact that she was an undercover sociologist, not an aspiring actress at all! …Reefs, that was it. Shoals and reefs.

    Just when they were looking at their watches and deciding it was about time to go along to the cast meeting Brian’s Mandy appeared, the usual clipboard in her hand, and briskly removed Molly. Thankfully not replacing her with Georgia. Rupy led Andrew off to the meeting, wondering numbly what was coming next.

    Most of the cast was already assembled, including Georgia, ensconced beside Brian Hendricks—but where was Molly? Rupy looked round uneasily and attempted to fade into the background, but no go: they were waved forward. He avoided Georgia’s eye completely.

    Brian, a broad-shouldered man, not very tall, with thick, wavy hair, a just-silvering brown, was very fond of shades of tan and brown, and today he was in a tan wool suit with a fawn silk tie and beautiful gold and agate cufflinks. Very much the businessman. He shook hands with Andrew, welcoming him to Henny Penny, and performed introductions rapidly. Rupy already knew most of the actors. Uh—but where was Euan? And where on earth was Derry? Come to think of it, Varley wasn’t here, either: what was going on?

    Brian was making a speech welcoming all the newcomers to Henny Penny Productions and explaining how things worked here. Rupy already knew it all. He stared glumly at the floor, not looking at Brian because really, that suit was nasty.

    Everybody was starting to look bored and restless by the time Derry and Varley finally made their entrance, looking very important, followed by Euan, looking rather wry. Still no Molly! Surely they hadn't decided they didn’t want her after all? Rupy risked a look at Georgia. She was looking smug. Oh, God!

    Nobody had brightened much at the sight of the great director, especially not those who had worked for him before. He launched into a speech, waving his arms in his usual fashion, but it was only blah about concepts and the hypocrisies of modern life and chains of command in the Navy reinforcing the blah-blah…

    “Ah!” Rupy grasped his script eagerly. “Ta, Mandy, dear!”

    Mandy had worked for Henny Penny for years and in spite of the constant clipboard and the menial tasks of handing out scripts and so forth, actually did trouble-shooter for Brian and was an integral part of his organisation. She gave him a very dry look but Rupy didn’t notice, he was eagerly looking at his part…

    What? He took a deep breath. “Derry, darling, do excuse me for butting in at this early stage, but this doesn’t seem to be my part.”

    “Does it say ‘Commander’?” replied Derry.

    “No.”

    “Then it is yours,” he said blandly.

    Rupy went very red. “If one of we hoi polloi may be permitted to say so, Derry, that is not funny!”

    Euan grinned at him. “Hoi polloi’s a good one, Rupy. Adam would say kittle-cattle.”

    “Well, exactly, Euan dear!” he agreed with feeling.

    “If it says ‘Trimmer’, it is yours,” said Euan kindly.

    “What?” he gasped. “But Brian promised me I could be a Commander again! And pardon me for putting my two cents’ worth in again, but isn’t a Trimmer perilously near that serious thing with lovely Guy Whatsisface?”

    “Not an actor: Guy Crouchback. Waugh,” said Euan briefly to the baffled faces of the assembled cast of The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation. “Some of us have pointed that out to Varley.”

    Everybody looked at Varley Knollys.

    “It’s a pseudonym!” he snapped.

    “Yes,” agreed Euan smoothly, “though were we going to reveal that quite so early in the piece, Varley? To the hoi polloi, I mean.” –Pleased sniggers greeted this: most people who’d worked with him loathed Varley Knollys.

    “It’s immaterial,” Varley said grimly. “And kindly don’t start farting around at this stage.”

    Euan replied calmly: “I thought I was merely introducing a lighter note, after Derry’s slaying us all with the underlying message. But I’m sorry if it didn’t strike you like that, Varley. Perhaps I could just say to everyone that the approach will be very like the one Derry took in the film of the Daughter: there will be an underlying message, of course, but on the surface this will be a comic drama. Combining, as it were,” he said, his big brown eyes twinkling and the nice, curly mouth twitching just a little, “the features of both the drama and the comedy show. With a considerable amount of suspense thrown in for good measure. Which brings us to Rupy’s character.” He smiled at Rupy. “If I may, Varley?”

    The writer shrugged. “Personally I feel we may get a better performance out of him if he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to be—but by all means.”

    “You are a Commander, Rupy, known to the ship’s company as Commander Trimmer,” said Euan, “and ostensibly one of the admiral’s senior aides—lots of gold lanyards on the shoulders!” he said with a laugh. “But in actual fact Commander Trimmer is Commander Harrod, and attached to Naval Intelligence. Investigating suspected spy activity on the new Regardless, Rupy!”

    “Ooh!” he gasped, his eyes shining. “Me? Naval Intelligence? Ooh!”

    “Yes, and by God if you can’t bring it off you’ll be out of the show by the end of the first series,” said Varley grimly.

    “Of course he’ll bring it off,” said Derry on a firm note. “I think we agreed at one stage that he’s the only light comedy actor in England who can put over a comic rôle without glancing coyly and meaningfully at the camera. He was excellent in the film. And you saw his Sparkish.”

    “Ta ever so, Derry, darling!” said Rupy with a laugh.

    “That will form a considerable amount of the ostensible plot of the first series,” said Derry on a firm note to the bent heads poring over their parts. He looked around and began to glare.

    “Leave it, Derry,” said Euan in a low voice.

    He sighed, but left it.

    The sallow-faced Mandy had handed out elaborate rehearsal timetables which those actors who were new to Henny Penny had gulped over, and the supporting rôles had been kindly dismissed by Brian, with a parting injunction from Derry, not so kind, to the effect that they were to know their words for their first rehearsals or else, and that left the principals. The principals looked at one another uncertainly. Did Derry want them to read through their parts without even having had time to look at them? Those who had heard of the great man’s reputation as an auteur (the “Do what I say and don’t think about it” style) eyed him uneasily and wondered if someone (not them) ought to mention to him that this wasn’t movie-making, it was telly. Those who had worked for Henny Penny before wondered why Brian hadn't wised him up that the company did not pay for time-wasting directors on huge salaries to rehearse completely unprepared casts. Those who privately hadn't considered themselves to have been offered principal rôles wondered silently why they were included at all but took discretion as very much the better part of valour and made mental notes to speak to their agents…

    “Is this the usual thing?” murmured Andrew.

    Rupy jumped. “Um, well, for Derry, yes.” He eyed the group of Derry, Brian, Varley and Euan with their heads together uncertainly. “Brian isn’t a time-waster, though!” he hissed.

    Andrew winked at him. “Right.”

    And, there being manifestly nothing else to do, they sat back and prepared to enjoy it. In fact Andrew offered a packet of Lifesavers and Rupy, taking one gratefully, admitted: “You’ve caught on quickly.”

    After some time Euan lounged over to them, grinning. “Have you got it, yet?”

    “We’ve got that Rupy’s in counter-espionage,” admitted Andrew.

    “Only thanks to you, Euan, dear: when was beastly Varley planning to let on?” asked Rupy.

    “Och, well, in the outline your true identity is revealed in the second-to-last episode of the first series, Rupy, thus leaving the punters breathlessly waiting for the last episode and then even more breathlessly waiting for Series Two. So my bet would have been possibly but not inevitably when we were rehearsing that episode. Or never, of course,” he said, looking prim.

    Andrew spluttered but Rupy said with feeling: “Not a joke, you don’t know the man!”

    “Quite,” said Euan drily. “Anything else need elucidating?”

    Yes: mostly, where was Molly? thought Rupy, not saying it.

    “All of it, really,” replied Andrew.

    Euan looked across the room but the discussion was still going on. “Let’s see.” He sat down and took his script. “Right, your first scene is in a bar.”

    “So’s mine,” said Rupy in a puzzled voice.

    “Right: Trimmer and Dearborn—that’s you, Andrew—with your heads together. –If you think ‘Dearborn’ is bad, think again: Varley wanted your surname to be Darling.” They gulped, even Rupy, who had after all been in the Business since he was seventeen. “Yeah,” said Euan with considerable satisfaction. “Trimmer pats Dearborn on the shoulder and goes out. –Sorry, Rupy, no actual lines.”

    “Derry’ll manage to scream at me all the same,” he noted, but, Andrew registered with a certain relief, without apparent resentment. “I won’t ask why we’ve got our heads together, since I presume even purblind Varley’s realised that no-one on earth is going to believe for an instant that Andrew might be gay.”

    “No,” agreed Euan, grinning. “Okay: typical bar scene—Brian’ll probably get a sponsor to pay megabucks for the privilege of having their beer shown—and enter New D., asks for a lager. Dearborn shows interest, moves in on her, she shows even more interest, blah, blah. Ends in a one-night stand”—he turned over rapidly—“and, early next morning, her hotel room, she wakes up just as you’re dashing off to sea for six months.”

    “Yes, but in the next scene we’re in bed again!” Andrew objected.

    “Not impossible, dear, is it?” put in Rupy.

    “But surely it’s redundant!”

    “Uh-uh,” replied Euan, shaking his head. “Just hang on. New D. and Dearborn discovered in bed, her bedroom—this description is Varley adding unnecessary detail, there’ll be huge rows over whether it really is the Look—you’re all eager, Andrew, she wakes up, hangover, shock, dismay, what happened last night, you’re very disconcerted.”

    “A chap would be,” agreed Rupy, peering over Andrew’s shoulder.

    “Right. Anyway, she has a shower, feels a lot better, you do it again—ignore all this about writhing limbs and close-ups, Derry won’t shoot it anything like the way Varley’s written it—but the general idea is that you do it again and just when you’re starting to feel really pleased with yourself she orders you to exit by the balcony window because Daddy’s going to have ten fits if he finds you here. You must have been pretty pissed last night because you thought the place was a hotel. Exit via the balcony—God knows whether they’ll have you shinning down a drainpipe,” he said with a grin: “that’s the sort of detail Varley doesn’t bother with—exterior shot of stately ’ome.”

    “More?” groaned Rupy.

    “The Yank market, Rupy: Brian’s got that Boston TV company in on it again,”

    “Of course, why did I even ask,” he sighed. “Rosie calls it W-CRAPTV, Andrew,” he explained.

    Andrew collapsed in sniggers. But then he said weakly: “I got all that, Euan, thanks, but why bother with two seduction scenes?”

    Blandly Euan picked up the giant script he’d been lugging. “That there actor’s part. This here complete working script, got it?”

    “Yeah.”

    Looking wry, Euan opened his script and turned to Andrew’s first scene. It was not the first scene, by any means. “Bar.” He pointed. “Enter New D.2,” he read blandly. He turned over. And over… “Here. Bedroom of Captain’s Country House. Dearborn and New D.1 discovered in b—”

    “What?” he gasped, grabbing it.

    Euan sat back looking very, very wry. “Bed,” he finished.

    Andrew flapped feverishly back and forth. “New D.1—New D.2—1 again— By God, there are two of them!”

    “Aye.”

    “But in that case, where’s Molly?” cried Rupy in anguish.

    “She’ll be here in a moment: Mandy’s just gone to fetch her.”

    Rupy looked round wildly. Mandy had vanished, all right. “What is all this?”

    Euan sighed. “Don’t look at me: it was Varley’s idea, originally. Brian’s gone mad over the publicity he thinks it’s going to generate.”

    “Varley had an idea for publicity?” he croaked. “Darling, it’ll be a disaster!”

    “Very probably. They’ve got rid of the supporting cast in the faint hope it might not be. Just wait, they’re about to reveal all,” he said heavily.

    They waited, perforce…

    Mandy ushered Molly in. She smiled shyly as Derry cried: “There she is! Darling, so sorry to keep you hanging around for ages!” and surged forward to greet her.

    Most of the actors were staring. Brian stepped forward and said in a very airy voice: “She is very like Georgia, isn’t she? This is Molly Rose, everybody, and she’s Georgia’s sister.”

    He launched into explanations, while Derry, beaming fulsomely and patting Molly’s hand warmly, sat her down between himself and Georgia. Molly was seen to smile limply at her sister. Georgia merely looked dry.

    As was now pretty well apparent to Rupy and Andrew, Molly would be taking one Daughter—technically New Daughter 1, the Captain’s English daughter, while Georgia would be New Daughter 2, the Australian daughter: the plot would reveal fairly early on that she was the result of a liaison when he’d been out in Australia on joint manoeuvres. There was quite a lot more to it but very clearly nobody took much of it in: they were too busy staring avidly at Georgia and Molly. And—Brian might have been seen to take a deep breath—the reason the supporting cast had been dismissed was that it was all highly confidential up until Episode 5 went to air—scripts flapped wildly—and until then, as far as everyone but themselves was concerned, Georgia would be taking both rôles!

    There was a stunned silence. Finally one brave voice croaked: “What about the crews, though?”

    “The crews will never see the two of them together,” said Brian very grimly indeed.

    Rupy gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth.

    “It’s all right, Rupy,” said Molly quickly, very pink. “I wasn’t supposed to be here so early this morning. I got an early train because I didn’t want to be late. They’ve thought up a story to explain that.”

    “Yes,” said Mandy on a grim note. “As far as those who saw her in the canteen this morning are concerned, Molly was Georgia’s double.”

    “She’s that, all right,” said Andrew drily into the dubious silence.

    “But Mandy, dear,” croaked Rupy, “Jasmine knows! They had a lovely chat about Molly’s little Micky!”

    “Jasmine has been taken care of,” replied Mandy very grimly indeed.

    Those who didn’t know Henny Penny goggled at her in horror.

    Hurriedly Molly explained: “They’re paying for her and her youngest kiddie to go on a lovely holiday to the West Indies to see her rellies, and when she comes back she’s going to work for Mandy’s mum for a bit.”

    “Mum’s got a restaurant in Woking. Indian food, but she’s really keen to expand into West Indian, she’s looking forward to having her,” said Mandy calmly. “So that’s settled.” She looked hard at the actors.

    “Needless to say,” said Brian, sounding very mild, “if there are any leaks, we will get to the bottom of it and those responsible will be written out of the show and, need I say it, will never work for me again. Or for Double Dee,” he added on a dry note. “We’ve agreed that once Episode 5 has gone to air with no leaks there will be a bonus for you all. Please don’t ask for anything in writing, at this stage.”

    “I think you ought to tell them how much,” put in Georgia.

    Brian blinked and looked at the assembled faces. “Er—yes. A hundred pounds each.”

    The actors brightened terrifically.

    “Good. You’ll find as we go that the scripts will be very carefully worked out so as to minimise New Daughter 1’s screen exposure”—the actors looked at Molly in sympathetic horror—“and in many cases we’ll be shooting from the back and will in fact use Georgia. Molly’s scenes will be grouped together and we’ll film them last. Today will be the last time you’ll see Georgia and Molly together for some time. Episode 5 will air in October.”

    Most of the actors had already worked this out; they nodded. After a moment, however, Andrew said in a puzzled voice: “Um, sorry, Brian: as the new kid on the block I’ve probably got this all wrong, but in my script my second scene seems to be with Molly.”

    “Thank you for raising that point, Andrew. Your scripts present the story chronologically,” said Brian, somewhat grim. “I prefer my casts to understand what they’re acting in. However, Andrew, your shooting schedule will show you that that scene won’t be shot until June.”

    “I see: thanks,” he said humbly.

    Brian took another of those deep breaths. “We did consider keeping the whole thing under wraps and not introducing you all to Molly until we were due to film. However, at Double Dee we prefer to treat our actors as people, not pawns. I’m sure you’ll justify our trust in you, and that this will be the start of a long and happy working relationship. –Thank you, Mandy: could you wheel it in now? And we’ll have a toast.” Mandy went out and returned after a few moments with a large trolley bearing glasses, bottles, and a selection of sandwiches and pastries. Everyone brightened terrifically. The fizz was poured, glasses were filled, and Brian asked Derry to give the toast.

    “To The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation, our two darling New Daughters, and a long, happy and profitable collaboration between Henny Penny and Double Dee!”

    It was hardly a toast one could repeat easily, so the actors just raised their glasses and drank. Derry in person then, with a huge arm round the luckless Molly’s waist, circulated introducing her to everyone. Mandy, Euan, and a couple of young men who had been taking notes for Brian and Derry more practically circulated with plates of sandwiches and hot pastries.

    Molly’s knees had gone so weak that she was actually quite glad of Derry’s supporting arm. It had been really awful when Mandy had revealed—very kindly and tactfully, mind you, but nevertheless—that she shouldn’t have gone to the canteen this morning. She greeted people in some confusion, not really registering who they were—but of course she knew Michael Manfred, they’d met in Queensland! The beaming Michael didn’t spare her a too-intimate kiss but as he then asked warmly after Rosie and Baby Bunting, Molly was able to forgive him.

    “I’ve been promoted to admiral for the new show!” he added, smirking.

    “Congratulations, Michael!” replied Molly with an obliging giggle.

    Pleasedly Michael explained that Garry Woods, who’d played the Ship’s Doctor, had been promoted, too: he was going to be the new Captain! This was him! Molly shook hands with a pleasant-looking middle-aged man and, after Derry had given with some garbage about something he’d been in at some festival or other, allowed herself to be led on and introduced to the rest of the principal players. There seemed to be quite a lot of them but although Derry helpfully told her their rôles he didn’t explain where they all fitted in.

    Finally Derry deposited her with Rupy and swam off ponderously to join Brian.

    “Confused, dear?” said Rupy kindly.

    “Mm. Utterly. They seem to have more lieutenants and things than the real Navy! And why on earth didn’t they tell me not to go near the canteen, the silly things?”

    “My guess would be because in the middle of all the demarcation disputes,” he said, eyeing Brian, Derry and Varley all chatting genially, “they neglected to appoint someone to be in actual charge of checking that everything had been done sensibly.”

    Molly nodded. “Mm. Brian was very cross with Derry: he said it proved his point that all practical matters to do with the cast should be co-ordinated through Mandy.”

    “There you are, then.” He had liberated a plate of yummy little savouries. Kindly he offered it to her. “Have one, darling.”

    “Oh, blow them! I will!” Defiantly Molly ate a savoury, regardless of the fact that Georgia had spotted her and was glaring at her. “I suppose she thinks I’m going to ruin it,” she said glumly.

    Rupy sniffed. “You won’t need to: Derry directing telly is more than capable of ruining it all on his ownsome. But don’t let it worry you, darling: you’ve got an ironclad contract; it could be the greatest flop ever and you’d still get paid.”

    Molly looked round at the now smiling, eating, drinking and chattering actors. “I see!” she said with a sudden giggle.

    Rupy’s shrewd hazel eyes twinkled. “Well, yes! I don’t say that everyone doesn’t want to be in a hit. But failing that, the main thing is that one’s got some decent lines and that one gets paid. Looking decent during it, preferably. Poor darling Brian needn’t have got all steamed up: none of this lot care about the mad machinations of telly producers. They could plan to star disguised Lily Rose triplets on a rocket to the moon and it’d be water off a duck’s back! Have another yummy savoury.”

    Completely ignoring the fact that Georgia and Varley were both now glaring at her, Molly took another delicious little hot savoury.