With that he clapped me on the back and hurried out, leaving me slightly bewildered, but feeling suddenly that the world was an exciting place and life worth living again. Here was a chance to write a film script handed me on a platter. I had several more drinks at that bar, savouring the excitement of the moment with the warmth of the whisky. If I wrote a script — and it were good enough — Engles, I knew, would keep his word. I did not spare much thought for the private assignment he had given me. I did not know then that it was to oust from my mind any thought of writing a script until I wrote of the actual events that occurred at Col da Varda.
When I got back to the cottage that night Peggy met me at the door and she saw at once that our luck had turned. Her face lit up. We laughed together over the strangeness of it all and went out to celebrate, spending money without thought for the first time in months, planning the script I should write. The fact that we were to be separated again didn’t seem to matter. It was for a short time and we were people with a future if we could grasp hold of it.
So it was that, two days later, I found myself sharing a carriage with Joe Wesson. Engles’ description of him as ‘a fat, sluggish ape’ was cruel, but not inappropriate. He had heavy features. The skin below the sockets of his eyes was dragged down by great pouches. His cheeks swept in ample folds to his splendid chins and flapped like dewlaps as he talked. He weighed, I should guess, over fifteen stone. He was, in fact, one of the most impressive figures I have ever seen and to watch him fitting himself into his sleeping berth was as good as a visit to the panda’s cage at the London Zoo.
He was in a furious temper when he joined me on the platform at Victoria. He had a hangover and obviously hated travel. ‘You’re Neil Blair, are you?’ he said. He was panting, but for all that he was quick enough on his feet. ‘I’m Joe Wesson. We’ve been had for a couple of mugs, blast Engles’ God-damned soul! Why couldn’t he convince the Studios himself without sending us to shiver on a Dolomite, taking pictures and writing scripts?’ He heaved his gear on to the rack. ‘The Studios will do what he says anyway. He could just as well talk them into it. He’s got a tongue, and ‘tisn’t as though it’s rusty. But he must have the whole circus running around full of the same idea.’ He fitted himself into a corner seat facing the engine and, as though to bear out Engles’ theories, brought out a stack of Westerns, picked up the top one and settled himself to read.
He worked his way steadily down through that pile of Westerns as we crossed the Channel and the train rattled across France and through Switzerland — that is, when he wasn’t taking on food or drink, both of which he did noisily and in large quantities, or when he wasn’t sleeping, which he did even more noisily, snoring with a strange series of grunts that ended in a slight long-drawn-out whistle.
He didn’t talk much. But once he leaned across in a 1C friendly way and said, ‘New to the K.M. set-up, aren’t you, old man?’ He had a queer way of jerking his sentences out as though he were always short of breath. When I told him I was, he shook his head so that his cheeks quivered. ‘Good firm when you’re on top, but God help you when you’re not. They’re a hard lot. Can’t afford to make a mistake with them. If you do—’ he snapped his fingers expressively — ‘you’re finished. Engles is their big man at the moment. He may last one year. He may last five. Worked with him before?’
I told him what my previous association with Engles was. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Then you probably know him better than I do. Get to know men when you live with them like that. He can be charming. And then again he can be a devil. Most ruthless director I ever worked with. If a star doesn’t toe the line, they’re out — he’ll get a new star or make one. That’s how Lyn Barin jumped to fame in The Three Tombstones. The original star was Betty Carew. She threw a fit of temperament — wanted scenes played her own way. Engles chucked her off the set. His language was a poem in Technicolor. Next day he had the Barin girl there. No one had ever heard of her. And he made her a star right there on the set. He got the acting he wanted and the film was the better for it. Betty Carew had done good work for K.M. But she’s washed up now.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Why you blokes ever come out of the Army, God knows! You’re safe there. Nobody can throw you out unless you do something stupid.’ Then he suddenly smiled. His smile was quite delightful. His face, for all its loose flesh, was strangely expressive. ‘Still, I admit I wouldn’t change places with ‘em. Life’s a fight anyway. There’s no fun in knowing you’re safe whether your work is good or bad.’ And he returned with a deep sigh of contentment to his Westerns.
