CHAPTER TWENTY
1965

Now what? Paul wondered, as he rattled around the empty Briar Hill house. He began working on Indian Summer, a script he hoped to film, but his thoughts returned again and again to the little gamine who had made such an impression. Finally, he decided to drive to Apple Barrel, and see Geneviève.

His mother and Aunt Hilda had a small apartment on Chomedey Avenue close to the Montreal Forum. While Aunt Hilda was still teaching at convent schools, his mother was busy with Beauty Counsellors. But she was happy to come out to Apple Barrel on the weekend with Hilda and cook roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Geneviève.

The actress duly arrived and pronounced that she loved the cottage: the yellow walls, the stone fireplace, the simple plank table John Molson had given Paul’s mother, as well as the metal sign “Apple Barrel” he’d also had made in the shape of a barrel.

“Nothing like roast beef of old England, eh Geneviève?” Paul said as she tucked into her laden plate. She complimented Rene, not only on her cooking, but also on her son’s directing: “He’s the best TV director I’ve worked with.”

“Thank you, Geneviève,” Paul said. “But the next step for me had better be a motion picture.”

“I certainly hope so, Paul.” Her brown eyes looked steadily across the table.

***

Paul invited Geneviève out again a couple of days later, and they walked up through the apple orchard onto the mountain road leading to the cratered lake — the same trail he had enjoyed many times after coming back from Oxford.

How the last fifteen years had changed him! Confident, rested, happy to be with this new lady, he felt buoyant. Geneviève was also in good form, revelling in the woods, the lake, and then the trail taking them to the highest point of Mont Saint-Hilaire. Paul talked about his time at Oxford and about Angela, which marriage had ended the previous year. Geneviève, too, had been married, but only briefly, so both were free.

Reaching the peak, they faced the distant Montreal mountain and its huge Oratoire Saint- Joseph. The wind tugged at them and clouds reared up in billowing patterns. In the high chill air, his arms went around Geneviève and she turned and clung to him. Their lips met, a kiss long enough to consume his heart. This girl he had grown to love — could she be loving him back?

They broke apart. “We’d better get going. Looks like rain.”

Sharing no more words, they hurried back down in single file. After rounding the lake, the promised rain arrived. “Damn, we should’ve brought coats.”

“Why?” gasped a drenched Geneviève. “It’s only water, I love it!”

As the rain increased, they hurried down the mountain road, leapt the tussocks under the apple trees and plunged into Apple Barrel.

“Into the shower,” Paul ordered and Geneviève complied. When she came out wrapped in Rene’s old dressing gown, Paul suggested she get warm in the bedroom upstairs. “I’m going to shower myself.”

While he was washing, he pondered, should he go and dive under the covers, too? But no such decision was needed. His body, with a mind of its own, carried him swiftly up the stairs. And into bed he dove..

***

One evening before going off to see a play in French, they met at Desjardins again for an early supper. Paul noticed Geneviève seemed unusually anxious. He said nothing, but after they had ordered, she leaned forward. “I have to go to Paris next week.” She looked at him.

He looked back. “Why?”

“Well… I have to do the preparations for a film.”

Paul’s first reaction was to beam. “How exciting? What film is it?”

“It’s called La guerre est fini. Directed by Alain Resnais.”

“Alain Resnais? The top filmmaker in Europe?” Paul was astounded. “Will you ever forget Last Year at Marienbad? Breathtaking — I even invested some money in its distribution in Toronto, which of course I lost. Do you have a nice little part?”

“I think so,” Geneviève dropped her eyes. “It’s the lead. Opposite Yves Montand.”

“The lead?” Paul stared. “Opposite Yves Montand? He’s the biggest star in Europe today.”

Geneviève nodded. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Oh boy, is it ever!”

But then, as the dinner progressed, Paul could see all hope for them withering. A big star in Europe? She’d never come back. The end.

***

After Paris, Geneviève returned to her home in Montreal, while Paul in Toronto headed into a heavy season of work. Geneviève did more plays on Radio Canada before returning to Paris, but her phone calls grew frequent. She had been photographed for the cover of Elle magazine; in fact, lots of French papers were after her — which Paul understood only too well. Who’d ever withstand that lure of fame in Europe’s finest capital city? She was lost forever.

Geneviève flew back to Paris for the shooting, but a small ray of light broke like an Eastern sunrise: Leonard White, head of drama at ABC London, suggested Paul repeat his successful production of Neighbours Leonard had seen in Canada.

London! A good deal closer to Paris. Paul accepted at once, and phoned Geneviève. What would she say?

She was thrilled. So at the beginning of November, Paul flew to London. Ossie Davis was busy, so Paul cast the comedian Dick Gregory who had never acted, but had some star power. Ruby Dee agreed to repeat her role, and his old flame Toby Robins, now in London, played the wife.

As soon as he could, Paul crossed over to Paris. He had only been once before, acting in Tony Richardson’s Duchess of Malfi, when he had stayed in a humble student dorm on the Left Bank. This time he gave the taxi the address, Hôtel du Quai Voltaire, on the banks of the Seine. When he arrived, Geneviève leapt up from the little salon and they embraced as never before.

The lift took them to their small bedroom on the fifth floor, where she had ordered champagne so they could toast the adventure. Out the window, lights were winking on across the Seine. Paul stared out at the Louvre and on the right, the Pont Neuf. Geneviève seemed as excited as he was. After his second glass of champagne, he blurted out, “Geneviève, I thought I’d never see you again.”

“You silly man. You know I will never leave you!”

***

When she was free, they strolled across the Seine into the Tuileries gardens, then up the Champs Elysées and around the Arc de Triomphe. Passing a newsstand, Paul got a twinge as he saw Geneviève on several covers. Oh yes, she was on her way. And him only capable of directing television dramas. More than ever, he longed for a real motion picture.

Alain Resnais invited him to watch a scene between Geneviève and Yves Montand in a metro station. What impressed Paul was, during the takes, the crew all crouched down behind the camera so no getting into actors’ eye-lines: the performers had the world to themselves. Technicians, as they crouched, faced the ground — as if kneeling in the cathedral of their art.

After the shooting, Geneviève brought Paul to lunch with her co-star and with her powerful agent Lebovici, who handled just about every major singer and star in France. Had he taken a great shine to Geneviève? Another worry?

They went to hear the Montreal singer, Monique Leyraq, introduced on stage by the great French actress, Madeleine Reynaud, who knew of Geneviève and embraced her when they went backstage to see Monique. Were Canadians taking this capital by storm?

In November, Paul brought Geneviève over to London for her first view of the Pimlico house. She loved it, and couldn’t wait to come and start cooking there herself. The romantic interlude was continuing.

Michael Langham, artistic director of Stratford, Ontario, came for drinks and asked Geneviève to play three leads the following summer. She turned him down. The stunning Honor Blackman, Pat Macnee’s leading lady in The Avengers, came to dinner with her husband; Paul had seen her house, designed by his two same architects. On Saturday at the last great flea market on Portobello Road, Paul managed to dodge Geneviève long enough to buy, in a small but elegant jewellery shop, an engagement ring, an emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds.

On Sunday November 11th, Westminster Abbey being only a short walk away, they stood in sorrow at small crosses lining the walks for the thousands killed in both wars. That evening, on the top of the bus heading to Notting Hill Gate for dinner with Ted Kotcheff, Paul offered Geneviève the engagement ring — albeit with baited breath.

Bless his soul, didn’t she accept?

Now, an engaged couple, Geneviève left to finish her film in Paris and Paul went on to direct the British version of Neighbours.

***

“Never”, as in “I’ll never leave you,” is a very big word. Paul wondered, did it mean: Well, at least not for the next two weeks? Or even two years? There he was, back in Toronto, with Geneviève shooting in Paris, and talk of the future being avoided — what would come next? Would she fly back to Montreal? Or to Toronto? Would in fact amor vincit omnia?

With great trepidation, he made the fatal phone call.

With alacrity, Geneviève replied, “Of course I’m coming back to you, silly man. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Geneviève took to her new house on Briar Hill Avenue with ease. Almost fiercely, she set about cooking, housekeeping, adding furniture, rearranging, and making Briar Hill comfortable for them both.

Paul plunged into an adaptation of Crime and Punishment, entitled The Murderer. Geneviève agreed to play little Sonya. The story being Russian, Paul chose as designer the great Nikolai Soloviov, who by now had beaten throat cancer but, with voice box removed, he had to speak through a hole in his throat, covered by a graceful cravat.

“Paul,” he gulped as they met in his small third floor office, “part of story is big square.”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that. It’s so essential. But maybe we should ask George Salverson, our story editor, to rewrite? I mean, how on earth can we do Saint Petersburg in that tiny studio?”

“Look, Paul!” Nikolai croaked, as he rose excitedly. “We build set in parking lot at Sumach.”

Paul was shocked. “Great idea, Nikolai, but what about the guys in props, the painters, the draughtsmen, the carpenters...”

Nikolai slammed his fist on the table. “No problem! Problem is for best show! I will put sets for one week only. We go see Leonard Crainford,” head of the design department.

With Nikolai’s reputation, and probably Paul’s — much to the annoyance of everyone else, they managed the impossible. A first, and probably a last!

Half way through rehearsals, Nik took Paul out into the parking lot to see his half- finished set on a mass of uneven gravel. It really looked forlorn. Awful, Paul thought. He turned to Nik, who shrugged. “We shoot at night.”

“Yes, of course. At night.”

“’At’s it!”

“But we planned on snow. It’s mid-December! Where the hell is it?”

“Saint Petersburg.” Nik shook his head disconsolately.

“Three days from shooting... What’s the forecast?”

Nik sighed. “I not listen to news.” He shrugged, and looked rather cowed, unusual for him.

“Can we truck in snow?” As it turned out, that was well beyond any Festival budget.

“Are you worried?” asked Eric Till, the handsome new British director. Word had gotten out about Paul’s folly.

“Not in the slightest,” Paul said with bravado. And in fact, for some reason, he was not. He just prayed hard, and counted on the Lord to do His job. Who else could control the weather?

But the next day, and the next, no snow.

Bob Allen, a wise supervising producer, had likely made contingency plans, but Paul had not. Lots of gossip in the Drama Department, his script assistant reported. Paul Alford was headed for his first big disaster.

But on the morning of the shooting, Paul awoke to see, out the window, heavy snow falling. “Praise be,” he shouted, waking Geneviève. “The Lord has spoken! Jeepers, I’ve got to get to the parking lot fast, and put up ribbons and signs — no walking on the virgin snow!”

But these outdoor sets were not the only “first” the show became known for. The Murderer, played by Paul Kozlik, had to walk up stairs and along a corridor to commit his murder, a crucial element in the story, or so both Paul and Nik felt. Before rehearsals, Paul had rung Vic Ferry, the technical producer of Festival. “Vic, I’ve heard they are developing a camera for television that is hand-held.”

Paul could imagine him grimacing at the other end of the line. “Not possible.”

“Vic, please. Ring someone in New York. See if they have one. I don’t care if it’s been tested. Get it up here for the show. We need it.”

What Vic actually replied bore little relationship to what he was thinking.

At the end of rehearsals, Paul held the usual run-through in the barren Sumach room. When Vic Ferry came in, he announced that the experimental camera had indeed arrived.

During the shooting of The Murderer, the CBC — and cameraman Tom Farquharson in particular— made television history by using the first hand-held camera on live North American television.

***

After the show, which Bob Allen deemed a resounding success, he called Paul in. “You think Geneviève would do another show for us?”

“Of course, Bob. What did you have in mind?”

“Ibsen. A Doll’s House?”

Paul had only done one Ibsen with Esse W. Ljungh. “I’ll ask her, I’m sure she’d love to play Nora. Do you have a date?

“You start Feb. 20.”

Geneviève got the script from Paul. After making sure her contract was signed, she spent all the next day in bed, reading. From then on, she never looked at the script again. Word perfect in rehearsals, she grew into the part as though born to it. Paul had found himself quite an actress.

Paul decided the show needed film inserts, so he brought Tommy Farquharson to a home in North Toronto that did look like a perfect little doll’s house. Completing the cast was Michael Learned and her husband Peter Donat, with Paul’s old stand-by, Toronto’s top actor, Douglas Rain. Another trophy show for the engaged couple.

***

Still hoping to make a motion picture, Paul tried setting up Charles Israel’s teleplay Let Me Count the Ways as a film, starring James Daly and Teresa Wright. But even with that stellar cast, he couldn’t get financing.

Paul then wrote a winter hockey story set on an outdoor rink, The Simpleton, for Budge Crawley’s Gatineau Studios. In the end Budge wouldn’t commit to the finance, so that didn’t get off the ground either.

But Budge wanted Paul to direct his own pet script, The Strange One, the story of a Canada Goose from Scotland blown off course to Ontario. He had even built a wind tunnel for shooting geese flying. But that film, too, went nowhere.

Finally, Paul thought up Indian Summer, a last love affair between a man in the autumn of his years and a lovely European — which fitted James Mason and Monica Vitti perfectly. She had burst on the North American scene in Antonioni’s films and had even appeared on an Italian postage stamp. Paul wanted to shoot it in the Gatineau, with leaves turning from green to brilliant orange and red and then slowly dying, matching the love affair. He knew it could be shot cheaply and got Lindsay Galloway, the Forest Rangers screenwriter, to write a first draft. Elspeth Cochrane, his London agent, also represented James Mason, so Paul flew to meet James in Geneva. But the script was deemed not ready, and like his other film projects, it also went nowhere.

So Geneviève and Paul decided to take their minds off work and go to Bonaire, in the Netherland Antilles — the first real holiday Paul had ever taken. Glorious! Just the two of them in a little shack, warm sand, snorkelling every day.

When they came back, Paul arranged another Dylan Thomas script to direct and Geneviève flew to Paris for her second French film, King of Hearts, starring Alan Bates, and a stellar French contingent. The director, Philippe de Broca, had made, among other hits, The Perils of a Chinese in China, with Ursula Andress.

Then Paul directed two episodes of Wojeck, Ron Weyman’s new television series about a city coroner. He enjoyed working with Ron, Rita Allen’s brother and a former officer in the Royal Canadian Navy. This series was a first for the CBC, shooting on the streets of Toronto and in Ronnie’s actual house. The crew was full of the talk of the new Medical Care Act, to pass July 12th, headline news. It meant everyone in Canada would get free doctors and hospitals.

As soon as he could, Paul flew over to be with Geneviève; they stayed at a charming little hotel in Ermenonville, near the location. Philippe de Broca, a short, gnome-like and energetic director with a long nose and sparkling eyes, was shooting in near-by Senlis and in an abandoned castle. His wife, Michelle, a forceful producer, had taken a shine to Geneviève, so they got on wonderfully. Evenings at their hotel, Philippe hosted splendid fun-filled dinners. He was actually two years younger than Paul but already had an impressive career. Whenever would Paul get a film of his own?

On the occasional weekend, Michelle invited them to the de Broca home at Carièrres-sur-Seine outside Paris. The ménage at 29 rue Victor Hugo was unlike any other, what with young Jaya and their live ocelot Charlie.

“Oh Michelle,” Paul asked, “you and Philippe have a son?”

“Not at all,” Michelle snapped, fiercely. “You see, when we were shooting in Nepal —”

“The film with Ursula Andress?”

“Yes, a little orphan Nepalese child kept coming to the set, deaf and dumb obviously... About five years old, I would say. We couldn’t get rid of him. He was very nice, I must admit, but finally,” she spoke brusquely, “we moved several hundred miles south. And I was astonished, oui, that same little boy, Jaya, he found us! No one knew how he made the trip. He had no money, no food, no way of coming, but there he was.”

“Amazing!”

“Absolutely. So Philippe adopted him. He never thinks ahead, you know. So we brought him back to Paris. But who do you think looks after him?”

Paul knew, of course. Poor Michelle. And Charlie the ocelot? He and Geneviève had been disconcerted on entering to see this fierce animal with its yellow eyes and huge paws staring down at them from the stairway curving above the small vestibule. Even worse they had the muscular body rub against their legs under the table. As big as a medium-sized dog, he would lie in wait for guests when they came out to go to the bathroom, so Geneviève insisted on being accompanied.