hung it up in the wardrobe and watched solicitously as he sank into the chair. He was looking quite tired, she thought, as he gave a sigh of relief. Her father had been talking about how ridiculous it was for a wealthy man like Sir Guy to be working so hard at the film industry, but Daisy understood that fascination. It wasn’t just a matter of making money, she guessed. He was part of a new and fascinating world – the world of the cinema – and she envied him.
‘Have a drink while you’re waiting for your tea,’ she said, pouring the brandy carefully. ‘I’ll pop down and get it.’
The jazz band was playing loudly and vigorously, the music almost seeming to rock the old house, as Daisy ran down the back staircase. No chance of meeting the Duchess or Great-Aunt Lizzie on this uncarpeted realm of the servants. The tray had been prepared by her earlier on – all of Sir Guy’s favourites were on it, including Marmite sandwiches made from thinly cut bread: lots of butter and a faint skim of Marmite spread over the top.
‘I see you are all ready for me.’ Sir Guy was sipping his brandy when she returned. He had a grin on his face as he pointed to the screen that Morgan had made for her which now hung between the door and the wardrobe, and the projector standing on the bedside table.
‘It’s very short – only five minutes,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘It will give you something to do while you are drinking your tea and eating your sandwiches. I cut the bread myself so it’s just the way you like it.’
Quickly she drew the curtains and then turned off the overhead lamp, leaving just the small lamp behind his chair. That would give him light enough to eat by.
It was Violet who was the making of the film, she thought as she watched it critically. The story was sweet and the horses were great and the way that she had captured Justin, that day by the lake looking at Violet, made him appear quite handsome – though he was no actor and some of the subsequent film showed him a bit wooden. However, the leading lady was what everyone would remember. The story needed to be stronger the next time, she thought. A murder mystery perhaps, she thought as she waited for Sir Guy’s verdict.
‘Very, very promising,’ he said as soon as he had swallowed his tea. ‘I think I could sell that. It would make a very good little short before a main film about a horse or something like that. How much do you want for it?’
‘How much is it worth?’ asked Daisy. ‘Be honest, now,’ she added.
‘I’ll take a chance on it.’ He took out his pocketbook and handed her a crisp ten-pound note.
Daisy stared at it. She longed to take it. It was enough to buy a dress for Violet. However, she forced herself to shake her head. She had to be fair and she wanted to be considered a professional. ‘Sell it first,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll wait for the money.’
‘I’ll sell it,’ he said confidently. ‘It’s just the sort of thing that people want. Make them feel good. You have a clever eye for the right sort of thing, and a good, steady hand. I must bring you a tripod the next time I come. Go on, take it. Ten pounds is nothing. I paid a hundred pounds the other day for a film by someone I had never heard of. And he just took his story from a book. I tell you what, Daisy, you could do a lot of filming tonight. Young people having a party – that’s the sort of thing that cinema-goers like to see. You can always make up a story to go with it – nothing complicated. Complicated stories don’t work on film.’
‘I’d like to do something longer – something with more of a story in it,’ said Daisy. ‘Of course, Rose is complaining that I cut out a lot of hers – it was a sort of back story, all about the heroine having a jealous stepmother and about the stepbrother being favoured. It was very good, especially considering she is only twelve, but I didn’t think that all that sort of stuff could be shown in a
‘Have a drink while you’re waiting for your tea,’ she said, pouring the brandy carefully. ‘I’ll pop down and get it.’
The jazz band was playing loudly and vigorously, the music almost seeming to rock the old house, as Daisy ran down the back staircase. No chance of meeting the Duchess or Great-Aunt Lizzie on this uncarpeted realm of the servants. The tray had been prepared by her earlier on – all of Sir Guy’s favourites were on it, including Marmite sandwiches made from thinly cut bread: lots of butter and a faint skim of Marmite spread over the top.
‘I see you are all ready for me.’ Sir Guy was sipping his brandy when she returned. He had a grin on his face as he pointed to the screen that Morgan had made for her which now hung between the door and the wardrobe, and the projector standing on the bedside table.
‘It’s very short – only five minutes,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘It will give you something to do while you are drinking your tea and eating your sandwiches. I cut the bread myself so it’s just the way you like it.’
Quickly she drew the curtains and then turned off the overhead lamp, leaving just the small lamp behind his chair. That would give him light enough to eat by.
It was Violet who was the making of the film, she thought as she watched it critically. The story was sweet and the horses were great and the way that she had captured Justin, that day by the lake looking at Violet, made him appear quite handsome – though he was no actor and some of the subsequent film showed him a bit wooden. However, the leading lady was what everyone would remember. The story needed to be stronger the next time, she thought. A murder mystery perhaps, she thought as she waited for Sir Guy’s verdict.
‘Very, very promising,’ he said as soon as he had swallowed his tea. ‘I think I could sell that. It would make a very good little short before a main film about a horse or something like that. How much do you want for it?’
‘How much is it worth?’ asked Daisy. ‘Be honest, now,’ she added.
‘I’ll take a chance on it.’ He took out his pocketbook and handed her a crisp ten-pound note.
Daisy stared at it. She longed to take it. It was enough to buy a dress for Violet. However, she forced herself to shake her head. She had to be fair and she wanted to be considered a professional. ‘Sell it first,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll wait for the money.’
‘I’ll sell it,’ he said confidently. ‘It’s just the sort of thing that people want. Make them feel good. You have a clever eye for the right sort of thing, and a good, steady hand. I must bring you a tripod the next time I come. Go on, take it. Ten pounds is nothing. I paid a hundred pounds the other day for a film by someone I had never heard of. And he just took his story from a book. I tell you what, Daisy, you could do a lot of filming tonight. Young people having a party – that’s the sort of thing that cinema-goers like to see. You can always make up a story to go with it – nothing complicated. Complicated stories don’t work on film.’
‘I’d like to do something longer – something with more of a story in it,’ said Daisy. ‘Of course, Rose is complaining that I cut out a lot of hers – it was a sort of back story, all about the heroine having a jealous stepmother and about the stepbrother being favoured. It was very good, especially considering she is only twelve, but I didn’t think that all that sort of stuff could be shown in a
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