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September 3oth, Deborah's and my birthday, arrived while I was still living my hermit life in the Fordwych pub. Deborah and I were both just as much in love as ever. We have always been in love, although our jobs have kept us thousands of miles apart. There are some loves like a precious jewel, that you carry about with you all your life, but are shy to wear in public. Mingled with this was the respect of one first-class craftsman for another. I had been in the film business for seventeen years before we worked together on BLIMP, she only three years; but she was so quick at learning, and so inventive, that I dreamed that she knew as much as I did. We could have done anything together. We showed a little of what we could do in Black Narcissus, where Deborah pleased me with her authority and imagination. Yes. We could have done anything. We were fools, but ambitious and headstrong fools, and we both were "hard as the nether stone".

We had seen each other since my marriage, not once, but several times. Not to make love, but to torture one another. On the day after my wedding day, if you can apply such an evocative phrase to the stark reality of a registry office, I had asked Deborah to meet me again at the Achilles statue and had told her that I was married. I have never heard such a moan from a human creature, and I was the cause of it. If she had caught hold of me, hit me or ran away from me, I think I would have welcomed it, my heart was so full of bitterness. But she just sat there on the park bench holding my hand, while the bitter reality sank in. Our hands and our hearts grew colder. While great tears welled up in her eyes and splashed on the dusty grass, I could only sit there dumbly and look at the ravages I had caused. She did not reproach me. She did not ask questions. She knew. I don't think she had thought for a moment that I could not be won round to her way of thinking. She must have thought that time and an MGM contract can work wonders. It is quite possible that Alex Korda may have had something to do with it. Since Alex had returned to Denham as MGM's chief producer, he may have promised Deborah that she and I would make a film together after Perfect Strangers. I know that they had bought Nevil Shute's Pastoral and were scripting it for her. It never occurred to me at the time - why should it? - but looking back to 1943, it does seem possible. Deborah and I had never talked about our mutual careers. We were too much in love for that. She knew that I had a sentimental attachment to MGM because of my years with Rex Ingram and the friends I had made in that great company. But that was long ago, and I was my own master now, and a contract to MGM meant as little to me as it did to Alex Korda, who shook off the yoke as soon as he found some finance.

The sun was sinking behind the trees that lined the Row. At last we stood up and, still handfasted, we walked like old people back to Charles Street. I felt as if I had been beaten all over, and I think she felt the same.
"But, Michael, we're going to see each other again?"
"I don't see how we can."
"We must - we must!"
"What's the good?"
"We can't part like this, we can't, we can't."
I knew then what heartbreak means. I hurried away.

We did meet again several times, as if there was some talisman in the touching of our hands and bodies. But we never made love again. Our sorrow was too deep for that. I had hurt myself as much as I hurt Deborah. I had broken the mystic link that had bound our fates together ever since we met in that agent's office. We sat, silent and suffering, beside the corpse of our dead love, half hoping for a miracle, but knowing it would not happen. Then I went away to Canterbury and didn't see Deborah for several weeks.

September 30th, our shared birthday, meant so much to us that there was no doubt in both our minds that we had to meet on the day after Michaelmas Day. Canterbury is fifty-six miles from London by the oad that pilgrims have always followed, and wartime Kent was blacked out, and the trains could not be depended upon. Air raid alerts were constant. Assuming that I reached London, the certainty of getting back the same night was slim if I depended upon public transportation. Bert Woodcock had ways and means of getting extra petrol, and I made a bargain with him to drive me up after the day's work, wait there and then bring me back. Deborah had left the English Speaking Union Club and was living in an ugly apartment in one of those fantastic red-brick and red-tiled tall houses in Duke Street, Mayfair. They are still there, and as I live at the Savile Club when I'm in London, in Brook Street, around the corner from Duke Street, I think of her every time I walk past.

The drive up to London was without incident, and took about two hours. It was ten o'clock when we got there and already dark. London was blacked out and eerily quiet. I think we came the length of Ooford Street and only saw a handful of air raid wardens. The entrance to Duke Street apartment was around the corner, and without a torch it would have been difficult to find the bell. Of course, the efficient Woodcock had a torch. Deborah came down and let me in. She had been working all day at the studio and had made some rather desperate attempts at getting a few goodies together for a birthday treat. Neither of us ate or drank much. Neither of us spoke much, except about the day's work. Both knew that this was the real farewell. The end of our shared love. We sat with our arms around each other without speaking until the front door bell buzzed. We took our cue like well-drilled actors, and she saw me down the stairs to the imitation Gothic front door.
"Bert, this is Deborah Kerr."
"Good evening Miss." He looked with respectful admiration at the tall, beautiful woman in the shimmering dress.
"How do you do, Mr. Woodcock. Take care of him. I know how difficult it is driving in the blackout."

We were stopped once or twice at roadblocks on the drive back, but Bert got me to my pub at Fordwych at 2 a.m.

p.448-451

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It was time I returned. I had a hundred questions to be answered, and not least of them the casting of the actors in the film. Who was going to play Mr. Dean, the drunken but competent manager of the ruler's edstate? Answer: David Farrar. Who was going to play Kanchi, the sexy little piece who attracts the eye of the young prince? Answer: Jean Simmons, a stunningly pretty and talented sixteen-year-old, who made her film debut with Anthony Asquith in The Way of the Stars. Both Larry and I wanted her for our films: Larry to play Ophelia opposite his Hamlet; the Archers to play Kanchi in Black Narcissus. Both wanted her at the same time and neither of us would give way. Only the great Arthur Rank, who was fast assuming Jove-like proportions, could solve the dilemma. Who would play the young Prince? Answer: Sabu. Above all, who was going toplay Sister Clodagh? Answer: Deborah Kerr, said Emeric.

I laughed at the idea. I turned it down flat. She was too young, far too young, ten years too young. Emeric was too old a bird to be caught with chaff.
"If she were as old as Garbo, you'd want her to look ten years younger than she is. Deborah is twenty-six and can easily look thirty-six. And she won't mind doing it, either."
Deborah was under contract to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, who would ask an enormous fee for her services. She had been under contract ever since 1943 - did't I know it! - and they had still not yet called her to Hollyood. Now they would want to get back all the accumulated costs on her contract. Emeric chose to ignore this and said that he had arranged a dinner to discuss the part with Deborah herself at the Etoile, my old haunt in Charlotte Street. The dinner took place. Deborah had been working at Denham and at Pinewood during the past years, and I had hardly caught a glimpse of her. Those soul-searing days when the irresistible force of paganism met the immovable concrete of Christian Science were far behind us and yet very near. With those passionate days vivid in our minds, there was something ridiculous about peeping at each other over the top of a menu while we discussed working together again.
My final conclusion was "You're too young."
Her final conclusion was "It's in your hans, Michael. If you say I can do it, I can do it. How old is she?"
"Thirty-six."
"I know how to play her. They won't think about the age." A pause. "Who is playing Sister Ruth?"
"Byron, Kathleen Byron."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so."
"It's a good part."
"She's good."
"Whoever plays Sister Ruth will steal the picture."
"Are you crazy? Sister Clodagh is the best part you'll have in years!"
"Oh! I thought you said I was too young for it."
"So you are."
Emeric had been thoughtfully inhaling a Tete de veau vinaigrette as a preliminary to an Entrecote sauce bearnaise: At this point he put in a word:
"Do you think that MGM would loan you out, Deborah?"
"Oh, wouldn't they just! They're as mean as anything. You know I'm on a retainer and they take half of everything over that."
Emeric asked solemnly, with a mouth full of sauce bearnaise: "Are you expensive, Deborah?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you're expensive."

I went to see Ben Goetz, head of MGM-British. The studio at Elstree was the best-run studio in the country. He and his wife, Goldie, were very much liked and very popular. He was a big man, intimidating, until he took off his glasses to wipe them. Then he looked what he was, a kind, fatherly man. They asked 20,000 for Deborah for twelve weeks' work. I was dismayed. This was nothing like any of the salaries any of us had ever paid anyone, except Sam Goldwyn.
Ben saw my face. He looked sympathetic. "Is it budget trouble, Micky?" he asked tenderly, almost feeling for the spot with his immense hand. I nodded dumbly. We settled for 16,000. So my two mistresses, one ex and one current, were both working for me in the same picture. It was a situation not uncommon in show business, I was told, but it was new to me.

Sister Briony was played by Judith Furse; Sister Philippa by Flora Robson. Sister Honey - that was a pet name the nuns gave her - was played by Jenny Laird. Judith Furse was unforgettable with her huge body, commanding height and masculine voice. She was homosexual I first saw her act on the London stage in Robert Morley's first play, Goodness How sad! Juith's sister Jill Furse, dark, slim, talented and destined to die young, was also in the play. Their brother Roger Furse was a painter and theatrical designer. This talented and attractive family had been associated with the Old Vic and the avant-grade theatre for some years. Judith had played a small part in A Canterbury Tale. I had been looking for a chance to get her monstrous shape and towering authority into a real part on the screen. Sister Briony was the ideal opportunity

p.576-578

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Black Narcissus was an almost perfect film. I say "almost," because there is always something lost in even the finest film, or perhaps I should write, especially in the finest film,when a scene or a whole sequence has to be dropped for reasons that at the time seem valid or even necessary. I wish that I had had the sense to make a private collection of these sequences. What a fascinating lecture I could give to film students with these martyred scenes as illustrations! What a banquet I would be able to set before them: theCPR train sequences in 49th Parallel; the scene between Godfrey Tearle and Hugh Burden in One of Our Aircraft is Missing, which contains the germ of Colonel Blimp; the scenes of the love-lorn witch, Pamela, in I Know Where I'm Going when she follows Torquil, the man she loves, to the Castle of Erraig; the two dance scenes in The Red Shoes between Moira and Massine and Moira and Robert Helpmann - but I am anticipating. I was talking about Black Narcissus.

The scene that was later dropped was between Sister Clodagh, played by Deborah Kerr, and the Mother Superior of the order in Calcutta. The young nun is crying, as she confesses her failure to establish the new post and save Sister Ruth from her dreadful fate. The rain beats upon the window and the tears stream down her face as she confesses her failure and then raises her tear-stained face in disbelief as she hears the old Mother Superior say: "Don't cry, my child. It is the first time I have been really satisfied with you."

Don't ask me if it came originally at the beginning of the film and the story was a flashback, or whether it was at the end, as it is in the book. I fancy that in the first assembly of the film it came at the end, when the rains came too. In that case there would have been the close-up of the rain falling on the huge leaf, and the camera sweeping round to show the curtain of rain blocking out the distant caravan, and then we must have seen the rain streaming down the window in the Mother Superior's office and the shadow of the raindrops mingling with the real tears on Sister Clodagh's face as she looks up and hears, humbly and incredulously, her Mother's words of praise.

If that was how we had it originally, I think we were bloody fools to cut it and substitute for it a highly romantic - or should I say High Romantic - shot of Mr. Dean, with the prop rain making it impossible for David Farrar to keep his eyes open as he strained for one last look of his beloved Sister Clodagh. That is how it ends in the film. But I have a sneaking feeling that the scene with the Mother Superior might have come at the beginning of the film in one of the draft scripts, to make the sort of Chinese puzzle openings beloved of European film-makers. Anyway, I wish we had kept the scene, and I wish it was in my collection now. The present ending is the only conventional touch in the whole film.

p.623-624

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In twenty-four hours I was back in London and having breakfast with Emeric Pressburger. His story was no great shakes, but it served its purpose, which was to provide two stunning parts for Conrad Veidt and Valerie Hobson which they simply could not refuse, even if England were to be invaded next morning. The film was called CONTRABAND later to be re-named and called Blackout.

It was a spy story, of course, with Raymond Lovell as the master spy, Valerie Hobson and Esmond Knight as counter-espionage agents, and Conrad Veidt coming to the rescue with a bunch of waiters from a Danish restaurant called the Three Vikings. I particularly remember Hay Petrie as twin brothers, and denis Arundell as a creepy-crawly, inaudible and almost invisible German agent who actedeverybody else off the screen. The film was full of restaurants and nightclubs, in one of which Paddy Browne was doing her stuff. There was also an adorable little cigarette girl in another nightclub, all lovely liquid eyes and nice long legs, who had a tiny scene with Conrad Veidt that ended up on the cutting-room floor. Pity I didn't keep the clipping, because it was Deborah Kerr's first appearance on any screen. I have said enough, I think, to indicate our showmanlike approach to our first genuine wartime picture. In fact, it was the first genuine wartime picture made anywhere.

p.338-339

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We were scheduled for twelve weeks, the longest schedule I had ever been allowed. But our weeks were only five and a half days long, because of transport difficulties, and a great deal of our time was spent travelling to and fro to Denham by rail, or sitting in immobilised carriages while an air raid alert was on. It was the grim period of "London can take it," and the contrast with Alfred Junge's gay, colourful and fantastic sets was very striking. We used to rush whooping into the studio, like children returning to their newly decorated nursery.

One day, when we were in full preparation for production, and other actors were visiting our sets and the wardrobe to sigh with envy over the period costumes and props, we went to have a coffee in the studio restaurant, and seeing Deborah Kerr, I sat down at her table. She was now a rising young screen actress, and had already attracted the attention of theatrical producers as well. She was shy. She told me afterwards that she remembered our first meeting in the office of her agent, john Glidden, and how I said quickly and dismissively: "She's too young for this part, but she'll be a star in a couple of years." Glidden had been impressed by my remark, and was even more impressed when it came true.

She was going to stand up, but I sat down quickly and saved her the embarressment. We talked, and as I recounted the plot of Colonel Blimp's three leading ladies, I felt the same mysterious affinity between us that I had felt for Roger years before. Deborah had a sensitive, expressive face. She was intelligent. She was all actress. I found myself wondering, had we perhaps made a mistake? Wasn't this the right girl to play Blimp's three sweethearts? I suddenly felt unsure. But I said nothing about it to her, or to anybody else.
Then, a few weeks before production started, a mine exploded under us. Wendy Hiller, who was married to Ronald Gow, the playwright, was going to have a baby. There was no question of postponing our production, except for a week or two. Everyone looked at me. What were we to do? Should we send to America for a leading lady? Should we offer Greer Garson the part? Even wilder suggestions were made. I kept my head and told Emeric that I thought Deborah Kerr, although only twenty, had the character for the part, and, of course, our wonderful art department and technical crew would help her through the three transformations.
In the two years since we had cut her out of Contraband, she had played robert Newton's girlfriend in Major Barbara and the part of the girl in love in Love on the Dole, which Wendy Hiller had created on the stage. These were quality performances. She had just finished a run-of-the-mill Resistance film in Norway, playing opposite a lot of Heavy water.
"Would a French company," I asked, "start yelling to America for a star, when one of their own girls has a little mishap like this? They wouldn't. They have confidence in their girls, and would find an even better girl for the part." Emeric agreed. I went on: "If we had more time, we'd look around, but we haven't. Let me talk to Deborah. If I think she can do it, I'll offer her the part." Emeric agreed.

She was living in London at the English Speaking Union in Charles Street, Mayfair. It was a fine morning and she walked over to see me in Chester Square. She was bare-headed, and I remember her hair shining in the sun like burnished copper. No. 65A Chester Square has a little bay window with a window seat, which looked out into the street. We sat there and talked. We looked at the bulky script together and I made suggestions about the script. Again I felt that mysterious affinity, as between an artist and his model, which is one of the most inexplicable of the sensual sensations. I made up my mind. I said that frankly we had no time to lose. So long as her agent agreed to our terms, she had the part. She stoped breathing and looked at me. She has told me since that I was already thinking of something else. I said absently: "All right then, see you at the studio," and she took her leave.

I remember standing at the lattice window and watching Deborah walk away up the street to Belgrave Square and noticing ow sraight her back was and how high she held her head.
Ten days later we started making the film. It was an unforgettable experience for everybody. It is difficult for me to explain what it feels like in a work of art to be borne along on the wings of inspiration. Emeric's screenplay for COLONEL BLIMP should be in every film archive, in every film library. The actors grew and discovered themselves with every line that they spoke. We averaged three minutes of finished film per day. We all depended upon one another, we all learnt from one another. i was not the only director. There were four directors. I learnt from Anton what an artist is. i learnt from Roger what a man is. I learnt from Deborah what love is.

Here are two memories of those days at Denham. We had rigged up a very small set, two easy chairs and a fireplace, in one of the big, empty, echoing Denham stages, for an intimate scene between Roger and Deborah. It followed the dinner party attended by Theo after being a prisoner of war in England. When the party is over, Clive's wife comes home from the theatre, and there is a lovely domestic scene of the two of them, plus my two spaniels Eric and Spangle, by the Fireside.
Clive tells his wife what he has said to Theo: "I told him: 'Don't worry, old man, we'll soon have Germany on her feet again.'"
"Did he believe it?" she asks.
But the scene was a little short, and besides I wanted something more intimate for the last glimpse of Clive Candy's beloved wife. Deborah in the firelight, in a shimmering evening dress and a bit of tulle, looked good enough to eat. I invented a bit of business which scandalised Emeric - the anti-feminist.
Clive starts to hum the tune from the opera Mignon, which is one of the themes of the film.
After a moment, she says: "Darling . . . don't hum."
He stirs and looks inquiringly at her. "Was I humming?"
She nods and smiles: "It's a little habit you've got."
He takes it beautifully and makes a face and says: "Mmmmm." Then after a pause: "But what will I do if I don't hum?"
She laughs and loves him and stretches out her arms to him and he takes her in his arms. The spaniels snore at their feet.