CHAPTER TWELVE
1957-58

Kenya

Full of anticipation, Paul parked along Front Street and hurried to Union Station where the ballet company’s bus was due. Through the autumn they had given twenty-eight performances in Hamilton, St. Catherine’s, Kitchener, Belleville, Ottawa, Sherbrooke, Québec City, and Montréal. And now, Sunday night, December 1st, Paul had gone to pick up his bride.

When he got there, Dick Butterfield, a handsome blond banker from Bermuda, was waiting for his wife, Lillian Jarvis. They were married in ’56, after Lillian did A Soldier’s Tale in Stratford in ‘55, with Douglas Rain, and Marcel Marceau in his North American debut and only speaking role. “Lillian called from their lunch stop. The bus driver thought he’d might be fifteen or twenty minutes late,” he told Paul. “By the way, that was quite some article on you in the Weekend Globe.”

“Yeah, thanks Dick.” Paul had brought a copy to show Angela, though he’d only glanced at it. Over the weekend he’d been working hard on a script that Brian Freeland had commissioned him to write on spiritual healing. But now he found the night chilly. “I’ll just run into the railway station and wait in the warm.”

Once there, he pulled out the article: several pages and lots of photographs.

Paul Alford, this tall, thin, young man with bushy brown hair and a quick and fleeting smile, has great depths of enthusiasm. His lanky figure suggests that he should move like Gary Cooper or Henry Fonda but instead he bounds among his actors like Mickey Rooney.

Oh migosh, is that how the writer saw me? He read on.

His method of handling the play is believed to be more important to establish the feeling of a scene than to adhere slavishly to dialogue as written.

Not exactly. But what the hell.

When working, Alford is a bundle of nervous energy. He finds it hard to stand still and his communications to others are apt to take the form of a series of staccato, unfinished sentences: “I see, that’s fine, yes, yes lovely, just lovely. Now let’s try…”

Paul grimaced, not sure he liked it. But he couldn’t stop reading.

Or, if his ire falls on some object at a difficult time, the utterance may be more pronounced. “This is the most ridiculous table,” he said sharply one day. “I’m fed up with it and I want it struck at once!” He finished by thrusting the table off the set himself.

In the studio, he changes shots at key moments by snapping his fingers and saying “take!” or “take it,” punctuated by a stream of technical instructions and cues, the latter set up by a script assistant. During the performance, a hundred and thirty shots were taken by the three cameras. All worked by Alford.

He shrugged. Well, I suppose that’s interesting how it all works, but how did he get the number of shots? Probably from Pat.

During rehearsals at Sumach, Alford seemed to forget what the performers were saying and began looking for camera shots. He would crouch low and squint between his hands in an attempt to see the scene as the camera would, repeating the process from tabletops and floor, searching for high and low angles as well as lateral positioning. Once the show was in Studio One, Alford worked from the control booth. Under these conditions, technical details flood his time and almost obscure his handling of the artists.

Honks from the bus brought Paul hurrying out to join other friends, lovers, and spouses of the dancers, as the raggle-taggle and worn-out company emerged to collect their bags. Angela was one of the first and Paul wrapped his arms around her heavily clothed body in a big hug. She seemed pleased. “I told Grant and Earl we’d give them a lift, if that’s all right?”

“Of course. I’ll just go get the car.”

They piled in and headed up Jarvis Street towards Grant and Earl’s attic apartment in Rosedale. They were all tired, but exhilarated at being back home again. Paul dropped them and Angela said, “See you Tuesday, Grant.”

“You’ve got Monday off?” Paul asked.

“Yes, but Tuesday, class and rehearsals again.”

“Oh not Pape Hall! I’d forgotten,” Earl said. “Do you think they’ve cleaned it up?”

Grant chuckled. “They’ve only just found money to pay us for the December rehearsals — I doubt there’s extra for cleaning!”

Back in the car heading over to Isabella Street, Paul gossiped happily about his recent visit to New York. “Wonderful time, Angela: the New York City Ballet, three by Stravinsky and Balanchine. So exciting!”

“Go on.”

“Well, I also saw West Side Story — ”

“Yes, I heard the dancing is wonderful.”

“Sure is. Jerome Robbins brought the Romeo and Juliet story up to date — all done as a gang war. Best thing down there.”

“Lucky you,” was all Angela replied.

“I got into a preview of Tyrone Guthrie’s The Necropolis Secret with Eileen Hurley, and The Rope Dancers, an Irish play with Siobhan McKenna — she’s terrific. Also, Compulsion, which was really first class.”

“Did you see David and Eileen?”

“Yes, Thanksgiving dinner with them in their flat in Greenwich Village. He’s directing Twelfth Night with Maurice Evans on the Hallmark Hall of Fame, an hour and a half! I saw bits of rehearsal, which was fun. Oh — and I had lunch with Bill Shatner and Lee J. Cobb. They’re both working on Studio One’s No Deadly Medicine. I saw Lee as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman back in ‘49. He’s an amazing actor.”

“You told me in a letter you’d been to the Actor’s Studio.”

“Yes, Vivian took me. It’s pretty small, almost grungy, with raked seats around. I watched a couple of tremendous young actors do a scene, and then Lee spent the rest of the hour talking. I guess they came to hear him, but I wished he’d allowed more couples to do scenes. I picked up a few tips...” When Angela didn’t react, he went on, “I’ve gotten a little something ready. I bet you’re tired.”

“Thanks, old bean. Yes, I danced Queen of the Wilis Friday night, then Snow Queen in Nutcracker, Chiarina in Carnaval and Felice in Winter Night at yesterday’s matinee, and last night, Queen of the Carriage Trade in Offenbach. Three performances in two days.”

“Oh boy,” Paul said, “Right after the snack — into bed.” He could hardly wait! A whole month without her.

“I do need sleep rather badly,” Angela replied ominously.

While Angela unpacked her suitcase, Paul took the grilled cheese sandwiches out of the warming oven, lit candles and put music on the hifi (high fidelity sound). He wanted this to be a romantic evening. But he had his doubts.

At dinner, Angela gave him her news. She had just appeared for a fortnight in Montreal at Her Majesty’s Theatre. “Your mother was so nice; she took me out to Apple Barrel on Sunday for a lovely lunch. And I went for a walk on the mountain.”

“Oh yes...” Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Remember that night when we took our blankets and lay in the moonlight under the apple trees? The wind came up and blew white apple blossoms all over us. Such a beautiful time...”

Angela lowered her eyes. “That was when we were on holiday. I’m going to be working awfully hard this December.” She changed the subject. “Your Aunt Hilda came, too. You know she’s directing a play?”

“I heard something about that,” Paul said

“It’s a huge production. She teaches four days a week in different Catholic schools. She’s working hard.”

“And Mum is, too.” Paul helped himself to another glass of wine.

“Your mother never stops. She’s now a District Manager with Beauty Counsellors, helping other women learn beauty counselling. She’s coming to their head office in Detroit in January, so she’ll stay with us on her way.”

“I guess she’s making more money than she used to.”

Angela nodded. “And she seems to enjoy it. She brought several ladies along to see one performance. They were so tickled to come backstage. I introduced them to Lillian, and even to David Adams and Lois Smith. I think your mum liked all that.”

“I bet she did.” Then Paul brought the subject back... “I looked over the poem I wrote for you that spring on Mont. Saint-Hilaire.” Paul repeated it [see Appendix] while Angela finished her light meal.

“Very nice. I’ve not seen it since you sent it to me.”

“Those were the days, eh Angela?”

“And these are the days now. We’re married.”

“We sure are. So. Nothing has changed. Has it?”

Angela glanced up quickly and then rose. “I’m off to bed now. I’m absolutely worn out.”

Paul’s libido had been growing all through dinner. Angela looked beautiful in the candlelight and he desired her as never before. He let her get changed while he cleaned up their simple meal.

As he came in, he saw that Angela had changed into a pink shorty nightie, her flawless legs beneath, and her equally flawless body, a Stradivarius among the dancing instruments of the other girls. Once in his pyjamas, he slid under the covers.

Angela lay as if asleep. He reached over to pull her to him.

“Not tonight, Paul. I’m dead tired.”

***

In March, the news was full of the Progressive Conservatives massive election victory led by John Diefenbaker. Paul got to direct another play on Robert Allen’s prestigious Folio and then did a couple more dramas on GM Presents, including one by Arthur Hailey, Epitaph at Little Buffalo, with splendid Jimmy Doohan.

His main achievement was A Phoenix too Frequent by Christopher Fry, whose gifted and sparkling poetic wit had captivated West End audiences. Paul had teamed Donald Harron, a terrific comic actor, with Broadway performer Rosemary Harris, on whom he had developed a huge crush — which went nowhere: she was about to marry the director, Ellis Rabb. Paul had met Mr. Fry in England and persuaded him to give the rights: so far not one of his plays had been seen on North American television. Another first for Paul.

So this July, 1958, Paul had arranged for the three of them to visit Angela’s family in Kenya. Would it help their relationship? He’d give it a shot — and anyway, at worst, he found the idea of an African visit appealing.

“So you’re off to see your parents, Angela?” asked Stanley Myer’s wife, Fiz, when they’d arrived in London.

“Yes. Celia gave me a whole month’s holiday. We’re so excited. You know, we danced in sixty-seven cities this winter. Can you believe it?” Angela was helping Fiz prepare dinner in their flat at 100 Eaton Place in London’s Belgravia. In a bedroom, Stephanie was looking at a picture book of African animals; Nicholas, now two, was asleep, but would waken boisterously as the evening progressed.

“What are your parents doing in Africa?” asked Fiz.

“I was born in Uganda,” Angela explained. “My father was a bank manager in Kampala, Uganda, but during the war, mother and I took home leave and I studied ballet in London.”

In the living room out of earshot, Paul quietly discussed his situation with Stanley. “What’s the idea of this Africa trip?” Stanley asked. “Last time you were here, you swore that you were going to break up. Now you’re married?”

Paul sighed. “I have no idea what will happen. Angie was away all winter, on tour. I couldn’t stop myself, I fell for a really pretty script assistant and then, imagine the kerfuffle when I had to tell her that Angela was coming back, and I couldn’t really destroy my marriage. So, we’re back together again. But you know, Stanley, we have a lot in common. She has a great sense of humour, works like a dog, decorated our apartment beautifully, right near the CBC, she understands me, so in a way, everything works well...”

“Except?”

“Yeah, except in bed. She won’t let me touch her. Drives me nuts. We got married, and crash – down came the blinds! I have no idea why. We even tried a therapist. Not much help.”

Stanley shook his head. “And you’re spending all this money flying her and Stephanie to Africa?”

“I’ll try anything to make it work. Before we got married, Stanley, there was no containing her. She was almost sex-crazed, we made love all the time, but once she was married, nothing!”

Stanley grinned. “Sounds like some textbook case for any old psychiatrist.”

“You’d think so. But the one we have doesn’t know what to do about it.”

They eyed each other glumly, and then wandered over to the kitchen. “Maybe dancers are like that,” Stanley added. “Though it hasn’t affected Fiz. She’s directing now, and she’s a great choreographer.”

“You’re a director, Fiz?” Paul asked. “You never told me. You’re so modest!”

“Paul,” Stanley announced firmly, “Fiz just directed the most popular musical in the West End, Grab me a Gondola! She also directed Share my Lettuce, another hit. She’s highly successful, though she’d never tell you herself.”

Fiz, not wanting to be the object of attention, turned to Paul. “That Mau Mau uprising is still going on down there. It’s a State of Emergency, so I’d be awfully careful.”

Angela shuddered. “But aren’t there more Africans killed than whites?”

“So it seems.”

“Angela’s mother,” Paul mentioned, “is a matron at a girl’s school in Nairobi. That’s pretty safe.”

Angela nodded. “Betty has to work. My father is retired and lives with another woman at a place called Njoro. We’re going to visit them.”

“Daddy writes to me,” Fiz warned, “that outside the city, things are by no means settled.”

“Is your father still in Kenya?” Paul knew Fiz had been born there.

“Yes. But he left my mother, too,” Fiz confirmed, “and now he’s with a woman called Pat, very nice, it appears. They have a couple of children a bit younger than Stephanie. You must go see them.”

“Good,” Paul said. “What does he do?”

“He’s retired now, but still goes into the Secretariat, that’s the Government: Kenya is run by a Legislative Council. In those British Empire days, Daddy , as a senior official, had to set a standard of allegiance to the British Crown. He flew the Union Jack on his car and on the flag post in our garden.”

“He’s very well-known,” Stanley chimed in, “even now.”

As they were sitting down to eat, Fiz asked, “When did your parents divorce, Angela?”

“After the war. My mother was a notorious shopper. With my father being a bank manager and away all day, Mother would go shopping and spend money they didn’t have on dresses she didn’t need. The bank cautioned him and Daddy did try to explain it to her. But mother never really got the picture.”

“I’m anxious to meet them,” Paul said.

Arriving in Nairobi, they were met by Angela’s mother, Betty Firmin, with her African driver. She looked small, almost wizened, but well kept with white hair, a prominent nose and sharp, piercing blue eyes. They drove to the prestigious Norfolk Hotel, the place to stay in Nairobi. Built in 1904, its spacious grounds were scattered with round thatched-roof dwellings and protected by a fence.

The next day, they investigated the city. Quite tiny, Paul thought, a hodgepodge of native huts beside modern apartments, a bank or two, and buildings built out over arcades, shading the sidewalks from the sun. Not many whites, mostly natives speaking Swahili (with varying degrees of competence), their many tribal languages making communication difficult. Paul bought a book, Teach Yourself Swahili.

After a few days of rest, they set off for Angela’s father, Stanley Firmin, and his new wife Dorrie, at Njoro, near Nakuru, some hundred miles away through grassland and scrub, on a plateau over five thousand feet above sea level — not too hot, although just below the equator.

On the way, they made a detour to meet Brig. Sydney Fazan, OBE, CBE, CMG, who had received a letter from his daughter, Fiz, and so invited them to lunch, longer if they could manage it.

When they pulled up, two enormous dogs, baying furiously, bounded up to the car. The Brigadier hurried out, motioning his visitors to stay inside while he talked to the dogs. “Hello hello! Just give Jasper a few minutes to get acquainted and he’ll be all right. They are trained to attack, you see. Better than any gun, though I have a few in the house, of course.”

The Fazan’s were delighted with the news of Eleanor, but they wanted to know more about Stanley, her new husband, so Paul complied copiously. Angela told them of baby Nicholas and the Brigadier drank in every word. “I hope I see Eleanor again one day, but it’s doubtful. I do call Kenya home.”

Paul could understand them hating to leave this fine house with its eight shamba (garden) boys, the usual complement for settlers, and two houseboys, one cook, mpishi, with a kitchen toto to help, a dhobi who did the washing and ironing, and an ayah (nanny) who, in Eleanor’s time when the parents went out to dinner, would unroll her mat in front of the nursery where the children slept.

Finally, Paul and Angela had to move out into Mau Mau territory.

As they set off for Njoro, Paul prided himself on his bravado, but soon found it disappearing. He began to dwell on the stories heard in the Norfolk Hotel bar: families with children slashed to bits by machetes. Apparently in one case, a houseboy let them into the grounds and Mau Mau slaughtered the parents and two little girls and then looted the house. In another case, the intruders had brutally cut the throats of an elderly settler and his wife in bed. And here he was, “wet behind the ears” taking his stunning and delicious blonde wife and sweet little girl through a kind of No Man’s Land into violent danger. He felt his stomach tighten.

“All’s well so far, eh Angela?”

“We’ll be fine,” Angela murmured, with a glance at the back seat. She clearly did not want to alarm little Stephanie.

Nonetheless, his knuckles on the steering wheel whitened as he sent up prayer after prayer for their safety.

But happily, no roving band of guerrillas attacked them. Finally, after what seemed an age, they arrived while it was still light at the Firmin’s, enclosed as most homes were by a thick fence of thorn trees and wire.

Angela was overjoyed to see her father, and meet Dorrie. Paul soon took to Stanley: methodical, peaceful, and especially interested in the arts. He even had a Canadian record featuring John Drainie, and knew about Ottawa’s Paul Anka, now becoming one of the most popular singers ever. “I just love the arts,” Stanley admitted. “Being far away from what you’d call civilization, I surround myself with the odd tidbits.”

After a lovely few days, they left. Paul was surprised to see Angela break down in tears. It touched him enormously: she was not given to showing emotion, except, of course, on stage.

At the Nyali Beach Hotel, a splendid Mombasa resort booked by Angela’s mother, some sort of dam broke and Angela gave herself to the husband who so longed for her human side to surface again. During the day, they would amble down narrow streets to the old harbour where they’d watch porters in loincloths unload Arab dhows, and spend time lazing on the beach, swimming in the Indian Ocean with natives casting nets just off the beach.

But the delights were not over. On returning to Nairobi, they set off for the obligatory visit to the famous Treetops, where Princess Elizabeth heard she’d one day become Queen. Baboons greeted them and a mother with baby kept opening one of the doors. A toto had to use his slingshot to keep them away. Naturally, the white hunter in charge took a shine to Angela and gave them the special room with three beds, its own WC, and a door onto the veranda where all evening, high in the tree, guests watched bushbuck and waterbuck, a female rogue elephant, and even a mother rhino and her calf come to take the salt lick. All ten visitors, wearing compulsory dark clothing, were enthralled and later sat with the white hunter at a long table — down which a little condiment trolley rolled back and forth on a track in the centre.

But as with all good holidays, it had to end. As they flew back to Toronto to face a heavy schedule, did Paul feel more optimistic about their marriage?