of her salary for housekeeping, and as she knew that Aunt Julia only had a pension to support herself with, Debra did not object. But it meant that she had to make all her own clothes, and it was as well that she used little make-up. Fortunately, her complexion was smooth and creamy, and her eyes, green and slightly tilted at the corners, already had sooty lashes to match her thick dark hair. Although her hair was straight, its length and silkiness required no adornment. In the right clothes, with carefully applied make-up, she could have been quite beautiful, but Debra, engrossed in her small world of books and teaching, was completely unaware of herself.
She swung now round the corner of Maple Vine, and entered the tall gates of the Filbert School. Scarcely above medium height, she looked more like one of the students than their teacher, and sometimes her exuberant pupils took advantage of the fact. But whenever she could she made their lessons so interesting that they forgot to be troublesome. This morning, for example, she had arranged a visit to some television studios, where they were filming a new series of detective stories. The studios were in Market Street, a wide thoroughfare that ran diagonally through the city. At the eastern end of Market Street was the long waterfront which curved past the dozens of piers from where hundreds of ships sailed every month. Debra loved this area; the colourful fishing vessels manned mainly by Italians whose home base was there gave the harbour an almost cosmopolitan appearance, and there was always plenty to see. Sometimes, on Sundays, she took sandwiches for her lunch and spent the whole day browsing about the tiny shops that abounded on the quayside, admiring the tourist stores with their stacks of souvenirs, and sometimes joining a trip that was going out in the bay so that she could look back at the city and imprint it firmly in her memory for when she must return home.
The Filbert School was huge and impressive, but surroundings in educational establishments, thought Debra, were only as good as the teachers within them. After preliminary assemblies, she gathered her class of eighteen and said:
‘I’ve arranged for transport to the studios. Are there any questions you wish to ask before we leave?’
A freckle-faced youth in jeans and a white sweater, with a huge ‘F’ imprinted upon it, grinned cheekily, and said: ‘Will we get to meet any of the stars, Miss Warren?’
Debra shrugged. ‘Who knows? I doubt it. We’re very small fry, and we’ve been extremely lucky to be accepted as visitors. The studios are particularly busy, I believe, and of course we won’t be expected to overstay our welcome.’
A girl with a ponytail grimaced. ‘Oh, I thought we might be televised ourselves,’ she said dejectedly. ‘And Ross Madison is there, and we all think he’s dreamy, Miss Warren.’
‘Oh, Sheralyn!’ Debra had to smile. ‘This is an educational visit, to demonstrate the techniques of ciné-photography and video-tape recording. Not the annual visit of Ross Madison’s fan club!’
There was an outburst of giggling, and Debra relaxed. She would miss this class when she returned to England. Whether it was because most of them came from families in the lower income bracket she wasn’t certain, but they seemed to appreciate everything she did for them with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Later they all piled into the coach which was to take them to the studios. The automobile negotiated the steep hills and turns with ease, while Debra sat on the edge of her seat, still a little nervous of the apparent lack of concern displayed by the city’s drivers. She was sure that if she could drive she would never dare exceed ten miles an hour down the precarious slopes.
The Omega Studios were large but completely unimpressive outside. It wasn’t until they entered the massive reception area which gave on to a flight of stairs leading up to various studios that the full impact of its size and opulence was felt. There were lifts, of course, some of them large enough to carry an elephant should that be necessary, while others were small and self-operable. Several attractive girls were employed as receptionists, used to dealing with every kind of personality from stage, screen and government.
Debra approached the desk, introduced herself, and was put into the charge of a Miss Powell, one of the attractive girls she had noticed at first. The children were staring about them with interest and curiosity, all hoping to see someone of importance. A lift transported them to the tenth floor, where Miss Powell led the way towards one of the larger studios. Debra had a muddled impression of lights and cameras and cables everywhere, before Miss Powell turned to her and said:
‘The director here is Emmet Morley. Have you heard of him?’
Debra shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Miss Powell smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not important. Around the studios he’s extremely well known, of course. He has directed quite a lot of movies, but your being English makes quite a difference, of course. You may get to meet him. He’s a nice man.’
Debra nodded, and they continued with the tour. The children were shown the various cameras used for different shots, the instant video-tape recording machine, and one or two of them even rode on one of the camera dollies. At the moment nothing was happening, but Miss Powell explained that later in the morning some filming would be taking place. The children were fascinated with seeing themselves on the closed-circuit television screens, while from time to time they recognised a familiar face walking across the sets. Much to Sheralyn’s and the rest of the girl’s disappointment, Ross Madison, the star of the detective series, did not appear, although his leading lady, Marcia Wayne, did, and she signed some autographs before retiring to the control office.
Miss Powell suggested they went along to the restaurant for some coffee, and cokes for the children, and Debra agreed. In the restaurant there were many more familiar faces, and even she recognised a star of his own variety show, Barry Willis. It was around this time that Debra became aware that she was attracting a great deal of attention.
It wasn’t so much the fact of being stared at that troubled her, but rather the sensation of being discussed, rather thoroughly. Some of the older men, who she presumed were camera crews, seemed to find her positively magnetising to look at, and she flushed with embarrassment and said to Miss Powell:
‘Is it my imagination, or are all these people staring at me?’
Miss Powell glanced around. She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’
Debra sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound ridiculous. It’s just a feeling I have. Maybe they don’t see parties of children and their teacher visiting the studios every day.’
Miss Powell laughed. ‘Heavens, there are frequently visitors coming round. I think you’re probably imagining it.’ She looked critically at Debra. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. Has no one ever told you so?’
‘Oh, heavens, no!’ Debra felt worse than ever.
Miss Powell narrowed her eyes. ‘Are there no men in England? Or do you live in a convent there?’
Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I don’t have much time … for that sort of thing.’
‘I thought London was the swingingest city in the world,’ remarked Miss Powell mockingly.
‘Valleydown, where I live, is thirty miles from London,’ returned Debra swiftly. ‘Anyway, this is hardly the kind of conversation we should be having. Will we be returning to the studios?’
Miss Powell smiled and accepted the rebuff with good grace. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’ll go back. I promised Mr. Morley that the children should see a little of the actual shooting going on.’
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