LITMIR.BIZ

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ration of ecstasy is whoever it is tapping on the door of the dressing room.

      ‘Are you feeling all right?’ says Justin’s voice. ‘Yes’ would be my answer to that one as Dawn’s petal pandies pop Percy into her pork pantry.

      ‘I’m feeling better.’

      ‘Is there anything you need?’

      ‘I’ve got all I want at the moment, thank you, darling.’ Dawn winks at me and pulls me closer, gritting her teeth.

      ‘I’ll have you called in ten minutes.’

      ‘Make it twenty, darling. I need every second I can get.’

      ‘OK, darling,’ calls Justin. ‘Don’t let it get on top of you.’

      Half an hour later I am on the set feeling exhausted but elated. Under the spotlights Dawn is doing her thing and I can bathe in the satisfaction of thinking that a few minutes before I was doing it too. There can’t be many extras who have had a star role – or roll – in their first picture.

      ‘Did you have a nice time?’ I am being whispered at by a thin, long-haired youth with a complexion so bad that the pimples are queuing up for vacant pores.

      ‘What do you mean?’ I hiss.

      ‘You were having it off with Fanny Freelove, weren’t you?’

      The age of romance has obviously snuffed it. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Come off it. I saw you go in there. And I saw you when you came out. She doesn’t only make the movie, that one. She makes everybody on the set as well. She uses blokes like corn plasters.’

      ‘Who told you that?’ I snarl, feeling not a little aggrieved to think that my experience has been by no means novel.

      ‘Nobody told me. I found out the hard way.’ The odious little jerk nudges me in the ribs. ‘Do you get it? “Hard” way.’

      I am still dead narked that evening when I return to Scraggs Lane with Sidney. We are putting up there, or as Sidney has it: putting up with it there. Dad obviously returns the feeling.

      ‘How’s bleeding Lilian Gish today, then?’ he says, flicking my hair contemptuously. ‘How’s the audience supposed to know whether you’re a girl or a feller?’

      ‘He keeps waving his dick at the camera,’ says Sid. ‘Come off it, Dad. Why don’t you leave him alone?’

      ‘You mind your own bleeding business, sponger,’ snarls Dad. ‘It’s marvellous, isn’t it? You can afford to make bleeding films but you can’t lay out a few bob on a hotel room. Oh, no. It’s round to Rosie’s Mum and Dad with a box of Maltesers – not even bleeding After Eights.’

      ‘I thought you encouraged show-biz personalities around here. What about little Jason?’

      ‘That’s different. He’s flesh and blood, isn’t he?’

      ‘What do you think I am, mashed potatoes?’

      ‘You know what I mean. He’s one of the family. He’s Rosie’s kid.’

      ‘Yeah, but I’m his Dad. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

      ‘Not with me it doesn’t. You haven’t got any of my blood inside you.’

      ‘What a disgusting thought. I reckon if you ever became a blood donor they’d be pushed to find anyone to give your stuff to.’

      ‘Don’t worry, mate. I wouldn’t give you none. Not if you were going baggy at the knees.’

      ‘Charming!’ says Mum. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, is it? I don’t like all this talk about blood when I’m trying to eat.’

      ‘ “Trying” is the operative word,’ says Sid. ‘This bit of liver, I mean – it is liver, I suppose?’

      ‘’Course it is,’ snorts Dad. ‘What did you think it was, shoe leather?’

      ‘Now you come to mention it,’ says Sid, putting down his fork and snapping his fingers, ‘that’s exactly what I was thinking. Either that or one of those stick-on rubber soles.’

      ‘Don’t you like it well done, dear?’ says Mum.

      ‘Not so you could light the fire with it. I mean, you know that Bisto we went to the other day, Timmo?’

      ‘Bistro.’

      ‘Yeah, like I said. Well, those Italians knew how to cook kidneys and liver and stuff like that, didn’t they? All the natural juices were still there.’

      ‘Don’t be disgusting!’ snarls Dad. ‘And don’t talk to me about Eyeties. I had enough of them during the war.’

      ‘Yeah, I remember. You were the only prisoner of war they ever took, weren’t you?’

      ‘I thought you spent all your time fire-watching,’ I chip in.

      ‘Sitting in front of the fire in an armchair. That’s all the fire watching he ever did.’

      ‘Don’t you talk to me about the war, sonny.’ Dad’s finger starts waving under Sidney’s nose. ‘I’m not going to bandy words with you on that subject.’

      ‘Bandy legs, that’s more your mark.’

      ‘Shut up! I’ve had enough of being insulted in my own home. If you don’t like it here, push off! I’ve said that to you a hundred times.’

      ‘Would you like some more liver, dear?’ says Mum. Sidney buries his face in his hands and shakes it slowly from side to side.

      ‘I’ll have it, Mum,’ I say quickly. Being raised on Mum’s cooking has given me the constitution of a rock lizard.

      ‘All this film business,’ grumbles Dad. ‘When are we going to see something, then? I’ve never heard of any of these people. Ken Loser. Who’s he when he’s at home?’

      ‘Just about the biggest talent in pictures today, that’s all,’ snorts Sid. ‘Even you must have seen some of the stuff he’s done on the telly.’

      ‘All that blasphemous muck, was it? All that sex and violence. That’s not how I remember Little Women.’

      ‘Yeah, but you watched to the bitten end, didn’t you? I didn’t see your hand sneaking out for the knob. Not that one anyway.’

      ‘It’s true, Dad,’ I say hurriedly. ‘He’s – er, a very talented bloke.’

      ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ grunts Dad.

      ‘I’d like to show you him in action,’ says Sid, ‘but he’s very strict about visitors on the set. He had a bit of a barney with Rosie.’

      ‘We heard about that,’ says Mum. ‘He said some terrible things.’

      ‘It’s the same with all these highly-strung artistic people,’ says Sid. ‘They’re very edgy. Little things upset them.’

      ‘It is a pity,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a film studio. All those cameras and lights and things.

      ‘Well,’ says Sid. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t see round the studio when they’re not shooting. You can do that any time. Like now, if you like.’

      ‘Ooh! Do you hear that, Father? That does sound exciting,’ squeaks Mum. ‘Better than the telly, eh? I’ll just serve up the sweet then we can be off. What would you like, Sidney? Bread and butter pudding or semolina?’

      ‘I think if we’re going back to the studio I’d better fill the car up,’ says Sid, rising hurriedly. ‘I’ll pick you all up in ten minutes.’

      Sidney has made a wise decision, as anybody who has tackled Mum’s semolina would be the first to admit. The only

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