Read Online Alfred Hitchcock by Patrick McGilligan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick McGilligan
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sailors for sitting on while at work, aloft, or over the side of a ship.)
Demonstrating, Hitchcock took his right arm and crossed it to the inside of his left elbow, clasping it there. Then he leaned across to where the other man was sitting, grabbed the man’s right arm, and crossed it likewise, pulling him closer to create a makeshift “chair” of connected limbs. The director had staged the action, making the journalist part of it. “That, my boy,” said Hitchcock dryly, “is a bosun’s chair.” The director never mentioned, however, whether he had known Thompson personally.
Such was his sensitivity to the subject, however, that when Hitchcock read John Russell Taylor’s draft of his authorized biography fifty years later, he requested only two minor deletions. One was Taylor’s mention of the Graydon acquaintance. Hitchcock explained that his sister, Nellie, living in England, was still on friendly terms with Avis, Edith Thompson’s sister. Hitchcock said he exchanged cards with Avis, and occasionally encountered her, when in England. The dark past never came up between them as an issue, he explained, and it was part of their bond that he pretended not to remember. The director didn’t want the book to embarrass Avis.
In September 1920 another
Telegraph
was published, featuring a particularly elaborate Hitchcock short story that showed his propensity for subject matter that (given the venue) might have flirted with censorship:
AND THERE WAS NO RAINBOW
Robert Sherwood was “fed up”; of that fact there was not the least doubt. Time hung heavily, for he had exhausted his source of amusement and had returned from whence he had started—the club. He did not know what to do next: everything seemed so monotonous. How he had looked forward to these few days’ rest! And now—well, there it was! He was fed right up!
While he was thus engaged in reviewing his present circumstances, instrolled his pal, Jim. Now, Jim was married, so he was in a position to sympathise with him; although, mind you, Jim’s life contract had not been the ultramodern kind—where you repent and eventually divorce at leisure. It simply happened that Jim had struck lucky, and he was content.
“Hullo, Bob, old fruit!”
“Hullo, Jim!”
“You don’t look in the pink. Anything wrong?”
“Oh, I’m tired—and fed up!” And Bob unfolded his little drama.
“Why, I know the solution. What you want is a girl!”
“A girl?”
“Yes: a nice young lady—someone with whom you can share all your little joys and sorrows—and money!”
Bob shook his head. “No, that’s no good; I’m not built that way. Besides, I don’t know any girls.”
“Listen to me. All you have to do is to go to one of the suburbs—say, Fulham—and keep your eyes open around the smart houses. When you have struck your fancy, just go up and—oh, well, you know what to say! Simply pass the time of day, etc.”
Bob got up.
“I’ll think about it. Can’t do any harm, and in any case it’ll pass an hour.”
“Good man!” exclaimed Jim. “Let me know how you get on.”
It was pouring heavily, and, in consequence, Bob swore. If he had any special antipathy it surely was relations (all of the old and crusty sort) and duty visits. The latter was a demand of the present occasion, and he made haste to get the ordeal over. But the rain teemed down heavier, and, being without an umbrella, he slipped into a nearby doorway. Some minutes had passed without any abatement of the rain, when a cloaked figure made its way up the garden path towards the refugee.
“Oh!” exclaimed the newcomer, startled.
“Excuse me,” said Bob, “but I am sheltering from the rain. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she replied, inserting her key in the lock. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “I can’t get the key to turn.”
“May I try?” volunteered Robert. Receiving assent, he continued the good work, but was equally unsuccessful. “The only thing to
Demonstrating, Hitchcock took his right arm and crossed it to the inside of his left elbow, clasping it there. Then he leaned across to where the other man was sitting, grabbed the man’s right arm, and crossed it likewise, pulling him closer to create a makeshift “chair” of connected limbs. The director had staged the action, making the journalist part of it. “That, my boy,” said Hitchcock dryly, “is a bosun’s chair.” The director never mentioned, however, whether he had known Thompson personally.
Such was his sensitivity to the subject, however, that when Hitchcock read John Russell Taylor’s draft of his authorized biography fifty years later, he requested only two minor deletions. One was Taylor’s mention of the Graydon acquaintance. Hitchcock explained that his sister, Nellie, living in England, was still on friendly terms with Avis, Edith Thompson’s sister. Hitchcock said he exchanged cards with Avis, and occasionally encountered her, when in England. The dark past never came up between them as an issue, he explained, and it was part of their bond that he pretended not to remember. The director didn’t want the book to embarrass Avis.
In September 1920 another
Telegraph
was published, featuring a particularly elaborate Hitchcock short story that showed his propensity for subject matter that (given the venue) might have flirted with censorship:
AND THERE WAS NO RAINBOW
Robert Sherwood was “fed up”; of that fact there was not the least doubt. Time hung heavily, for he had exhausted his source of amusement and had returned from whence he had started—the club. He did not know what to do next: everything seemed so monotonous. How he had looked forward to these few days’ rest! And now—well, there it was! He was fed right up!
While he was thus engaged in reviewing his present circumstances, instrolled his pal, Jim. Now, Jim was married, so he was in a position to sympathise with him; although, mind you, Jim’s life contract had not been the ultramodern kind—where you repent and eventually divorce at leisure. It simply happened that Jim had struck lucky, and he was content.
“Hullo, Bob, old fruit!”
“Hullo, Jim!”
“You don’t look in the pink. Anything wrong?”
“Oh, I’m tired—and fed up!” And Bob unfolded his little drama.
“Why, I know the solution. What you want is a girl!”
“A girl?”
“Yes: a nice young lady—someone with whom you can share all your little joys and sorrows—and money!”
Bob shook his head. “No, that’s no good; I’m not built that way. Besides, I don’t know any girls.”
“Listen to me. All you have to do is to go to one of the suburbs—say, Fulham—and keep your eyes open around the smart houses. When you have struck your fancy, just go up and—oh, well, you know what to say! Simply pass the time of day, etc.”
Bob got up.
“I’ll think about it. Can’t do any harm, and in any case it’ll pass an hour.”
“Good man!” exclaimed Jim. “Let me know how you get on.”
It was pouring heavily, and, in consequence, Bob swore. If he had any special antipathy it surely was relations (all of the old and crusty sort) and duty visits. The latter was a demand of the present occasion, and he made haste to get the ordeal over. But the rain teemed down heavier, and, being without an umbrella, he slipped into a nearby doorway. Some minutes had passed without any abatement of the rain, when a cloaked figure made its way up the garden path towards the refugee.
“Oh!” exclaimed the newcomer, startled.
“Excuse me,” said Bob, “but I am sheltering from the rain. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she replied, inserting her key in the lock. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “I can’t get the key to turn.”
“May I try?” volunteered Robert. Receiving assent, he continued the good work, but was equally unsuccessful. “The only thing to
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