Impersonator , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Ann Mann

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154 pages

English

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Description

Southern Rhodesia, 1966. When fifteen-year-oldElizabeth Tarrant is left orphaned after the brutal murder of her parents, she is sent to England to live with her uncle, a virtual stranger, inLondon. Jack Merrick, a top theatrical agent and impresario, is 42 years old and homosexual. He suddenly finds his life in upheaval with the burden of his late sister's child who he hasn't seen in over 10 years. As he tries unsuccessfully to put his personal life on hold to care forElizabeth, he embarks on a downward spiral into depression. This was the era of free love, where a single flower became the symbol for peace; the era where censorship and prejudice practiced by those in authority caused misery to thousands like Jack. The fifteen-year-old Elizabeth embraces the change she finds in London, but her vulnerability together with the physical confusion of adolescence, compels her to lead her life through an elaborate maze of plots and schemes after she meets 'the impersonator'.This is the story of two family members who become hopelessly infatuated with the same person. "TheImpersonator was inspired by my time as a young singer coming up to London from the West Country and living and working in Soho,"explains author Ann Mann. Ann is also inspired by authors including Daphne Du Maurier, Andrea Newman and Joanna Trollope.

Sujets

Gran Londres

Contemporary romance

Greater London

Grand Londres

London

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	08 novembre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848769458
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Ann Mann has enjoyed an eclectic career in show business and the media. As a singer, she made numerous broadcasts on television and radio in the sixties and performed in some of the top cabaret spots in the West End of London. She has produced and presented over a 1,000 programmes for TV and radio, worked for Walt Disney and Hammer Films, and lectured on musical theatre and Irish Literature. She has also written articles for major newspapers and other publications. Currently she is working on a film screenplay.
The best secrets should always be shared
The
IMPERSONATOR
ANN MANN
Copyright 2011 Ann Mann
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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ISBN: 978-1848765-856 (SB) 978-1848765-917 (HB)
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Featured song lyrics: You Don t Have To Say You Love Me (Wickham/Napier Bell/Curci Edizoni) Eleanor Rigby (Lennon/McCartney/Sony/ATV Music) Norwegian Wood (Lennon/McCartney/Sony/ATV Music) You ve Got To Hide Your Love Away (Lennon/McCartney/Sony/ATV Music) Today Has Been A Lovely Day (Roberts/Rossi/Parsons/Peter Morris Music) Wimoweh (Traditional/South African) Good Timin (Ballard jr. Tobias/United Artists Music) Just Like A Woman (Bob Dylan/B. Feldman) Waterloo Sunset (Ray Davies/Carlin Music Corps) Fire Down Below (Washington/Lee/Universal Music/ Shapiro-Bernstein)
Typeset in 11pt Aldine by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Contents
About the author
Copyright
Dedication
SOUTHERN RHODESIA
LONDON
RHODESIA
RHODESIA
BLACKPOOL
RHODESIA
LONDON
CORFU
LONDON
PARIS
For Hopper and The Brute
With special thanks to Sarah Molloy of A. M. Heath, Hilary Johnson, De Beers of London, Jan and Mickey Morgan, Olivia Landsberg and other good friends.
They know who they are.
A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love .
W. B. Yeats.
SOUTHERN RHODESIA
OCTOBER, 1966
Elizabeth watched the school bus pull away and trundle down the hot, dusty road, waving at Marion and Chloe in the back seat as they crossed their eyes and blew huge, pink bubbles which collapsed and sagged on to their chins. She laughed, but something inexplicable, something heavy, tugged at her stomach, making the walk home difficult and different on this end of week day.
The ribbon on one of her plaits came loose and she stopped to tie it. Why? Normally, she wouldn t bother. Patches of sweat clung to her armpits through her thin school dress. She stopped again and sniffed at them, her freckled nose curling in disgust.
Yuck! she said out loud. Must wash... She said to herself. Teatime was likely to be hard going, due to the blazing row she had had that morning with her mother. Well, what was the point of great-aunt Margaret giving her a brand new bicycle for her birthday, a shiny, red Raleigh with three speeds, if she couldn t ride it to school occasionally?
Not safe. Her mother had told her without further explanation. Things aren t safe.
She knew something was wrong when she saw the jeeps, and the boss-boy and his assistant who had been employed on the farm as long as she could remember being roughly pushed into them. She stood still, as though rooted among the ploughs, harrows and rusting machinery, as the tallest of the policemen saw her and shaded his eyes with his hand.
Why isn t he sweating? she thought, irrationally. His neat khaki shirt and shorts looked freshly pressed, although the veins protruded from his forehead, and his fine, sandy hair needed cutting.
That s the girl - the daughter! He moved towards her. Don t come any closer, sweetheart.
But now the breath was charging back into her body and her limbs were working again. Running past him through a posse of scattering chickens, she managed to escape the outstretched hands of his two deputies and reached the open kitchen door where she rooted once more.
Hey. He was beside her, his voice gentle but his fingers digging into her arm. You don t want to go in there.
Her father lay at an angle that wouldn t have been possible in life.
The gunshot had sprayed his brains across the primrose-coloured wall, and she slowly inclined her head to examine the pattern. It looked like a heart. A big, red heart, its definition only marred by the pearl-shaped droplets which had spread out from the perimeter and come to rest on the cream-painted skirting board.
Her mother s shoe was beside where her father s head had been, and, next to her mother s bent leg, the Singer sewing machine, still tangled with the dress she had been working on that morning. Bright blue glazed cotton, dotted with small, white daisies. They had chosen the material together in Jones Brothers in Salisbury last week.
Mummy...
But she didn t get to see any more of the woman who had been her mother. Mrs. MacLeod from the next farm, her round face distorted with shock, her apron still covered in flour from the day s baking, gently led her away.
Come with me, Elizabeth... Come with me...
LONDON
OCTOBER, 1966
Jack Merrick drained the last comforting measure from a Napoleon brandy, took a final puff on his favourite Montecristo cigar and made a mental note to try and lose some weight before Christmas.
Still, he felt discreetly confident and well-groomed today in a manner which only Savile Row can bestow on its devotees, creating an impression of strength from broad shoulders set in his six foot two frame.
It seemed the time had now come to deliver the speech over which he had been toiling for half the night, and which he considered to be the down side of what was otherwise proving to be an extremely pleasant afternoon.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?
The scarlet-coated Master of Ceremonies with the questionable toupee cracked his gavel sharply down on the table, narrowly missing a Waterford crystal wine glass and eventually encouraged the two hundred or so luncheon guests assembled in the Grosvenor House banqueting suite to a tapering silence.
We are gathered together... He continued, adopting a gesture of prayer and drawing a polite titter, ...To pay tribute to a man to whom so many owe so much. Someone who has recently, and quite properly, been awarded the Order of the British Empire for services to show business.
Ignoring the tentative ripple of applause - because that wasn t the right place for it in his script - the M.C s voice now rose to a powerful boom.
I am sure that his many friends and colleagues who are here today, would like to join with me now in raising their glasses in a toast to our Guest of Honour, not only a talented theatre producer and director, but probably best known to us all as that most successful impresario and agent to the stars, Mr. Jack Merrick. Jack Merrick, OBE!
With a dramatic flourish, acquired from years of hosting similar events, he cued the assorted celebrities and professional associates to their feet as Jack remained seated, wondering, as he had for most of the day, just how he had arrived at this point in his life, surrounded by such distinguished and gifted people who were paying him tribute. Honoring him for doing a job he enjoyed and which, although he considered he had performed it competently, certainly did not seem deserving of such lavish praise.
To Jack...
Jack...
The toast completed, people re-took their seats noisily, amidst cries of Speech, speech, which forced him reluctantly out of his chair. He had, during the last thirty seconds, decided to abandon what he had written, and to render words of thanks which would be short, sweet and to the point, then he would get off, allowing himself and others to pursue the obligatory mixing and mingling, plus some serious afternoon drinking.
Thank you, Arthur. And my thanks to everyone who has made this honour possible. You know, it s a well-coined phrase, almost a clich , but a theatrical agent is only as good as the people he represents, and I have been very fortunate in working with some of the best in the business. This... Further reaction was produced as he held up the distinctive golden medal hung on a ribbon around his neck for inspection. Belongs to all of you. For your talent, support and friendship.
He ran his hand over his thinning dark hair, then noticed a quiet late-comer wearing a full length-mink coat silhouetted in the doorway.
As I look around this magnificent room at so many familiar and loyal faces, I count my blessings that this wonderful business of ours has brought us together and, if I was asked for any wish in the world right now, it would simply be to continue to do what I love doing, for many, many more years to come. Thank you all. From the bottom of my heart.
The crowd rose to a spontaneous standing ovation and Jack was surprised to find that he was on the verge of tears, although there was no time to examine such mystifying feelings of emotion. People were soon at his side, pressing his hand and beaming with the appearance of true sincerity in what he knew was all too often a self-obsessed and insincere world.
Jack, darling. Shirley Bassey, the owner of the mink, kissed his cheek affectiona