The Obituarist
Fingers tapped on a keyboard. Letter by letter, a name appeared on a monitor beneath the image of a well-coiffured octogenarian.
“SIR HAMILTON MORROW: 16.5.1934 - ”.
His date of death was left blank.
Feminine eyes reflected the light from a monitor. A montage of film and theatrical stills from the career of Sir Hamilton charted his life. With the click of a mouse, the images halted, then scrolled back to black. An audio clip was dragged onto the timeline of images before playing the refined voice of a newsreader. News Reader: His movie roles displayed a startling versatility. Performances in some of the greatest epics of the last century.
Sir Hamilton Morrow’s early years could not have predicted the glories that--- A black and white image of Morrow in drag paused on-screen. In a darkened box room edit suite, somewhere off Regent Street in central London, a desk fan whirred along with the low-level hum of computers. The eyes were weary and strained by the light from the monitors. Eventually, the eyes blinked. The edit timeline shifted. Images of a life jarred as they flicked past at speed. Indeed, Sir Hamilton Morrow lived a life of distinction.
Educated at Eton and Cambridge. Novelist and playwright. Lauded thespian and theatrical impresario. War hero. A prolific star of the screen. Award-winning director. Charity and humanitarian worker. Cancer fighter. Blind mountain climber and polar explorer. That was the conclusion of many, including forty year old video editor Helen Beige.
In a tape library not much bigger than a broom cupboard, a digi-beta tape slotted onto a shelf alongside many other tapes. The name written on the spine of the cassette case read ‘Sir Hamilton Morrow’. There are those in the public eye whose chances of survival are not stacked in their favour. Ageing thespians. Drug-addled musicians. And it was Helen’s job as a junior editor to compile highlights of the distinguished and infamous. Show reels for the living dead.
They may not be deceased as yet, but a montage exists; ready to roll as soon as their agent announced the tragic news. The cream of the acting world holding their awards aloft. Rebellious rock stars fighting with paparazzi. Drunken actors falling out of cabs. Ruined politicians shielding their eyes with regret. Helen selected the highs and lows, the grand achievements, the loves, the losses, the star-making turns...
Those moments of resurrection and ruination. Collating these moments of distinction wasn’t the entirety of her job, but it was the part that gnawed at her the most.
The responsibility of representing those that could no longer speak for themselves.
Helen paced towards Oxford Circus tube, following her chosen point-man: A typical media trendy who shared her desire to get home as quickly as possible without any sodding about, forcefully driving a pathway through the meandering bodies distracted by the bright lights from expensive shop windows.
The usual fifteen to twenty minute tube ride to Liverpool Street was particularly awful that night. Over-crowded carriages. Hot bodies and stale alcohol breath. A few typical leery looks from men who didn’t care that they were staring. Free to pace along the platform at Liverpool Street station, Helen left a majority of the commuters to trudge upstairs as she and a couple of more-savvy commuters made a bee-line for a faster exit.
Slumped in an over-ground train carriage, homeward bound, Helen’s blank gaze fixed on the east London lights. Canary Wharf in the distance, twinkling like the Emerald City. Helen’s tired lifeless eyes lied to a distracted glimpse from a commuter. Helen’s thoughts considered all the lives that were passing by outside the carriage window. Those that would never be boiled down to a two minute montage.
She contemplated her existence.
What noteworthy moments from her life would make the final cut? Who would provide the voice over? She hoped for Stephen Fry. That distinctive, warming voice. She had also been a fan of ‘A Bit of Fry & Laurie’ in her teenage years, and always admired his finely-honed pronunciation which ripened the most mundane word. For there would be many a mundane word in the life of Helen Beige.
A faded family photo from the late 1970s of a stifled man in a brown suit stood over an overtly glamorous woman holding their new baby.
The daughter of an accountant and a tabloid glamour model, Helen’s humble beginnings cultivated her compassionate nature.
The clichéd crackle of flickering cine film displayed footage of Helen, aged five, dressing up her pet cat Topsy and cradling it like an over-protective mother.
But her generosity of spirit brought her into conflict.
Cine film footage showed Helen’s older brother dangling their cat over the toilet as young Helen pleaded for mercy. Whoever was operating the camera flapped a frantic hand aggressively.
Her tormented childhood fuelled Helen’s desire for a better life.
A still photograph of a slightly older Helen dressed as a ballerina, towering over the rest of her class.
Too tall to fulfil her dream of becoming a world-class ballerina, Helen turned to the stage.
On a make-shift stage in a junior school hall, young Helen stood stage-struck. The sound effect of a ringing doorbell. Helen remained startled in the stage lights. The doorbell rang once more. The anxious cast looked on, their fear of looking stupid sinking slowly into furrowed brows of contempt for Helen. A teacher hushed exaggerated words from the wings.
“There’s somebody at the door!” Helen! Hel---en! “There’s somebody AT THE DOOR!”
The teacher stepped out onto the stage, script in hand, whispering the line into Helen’s ear. Ripples of laughter from the audience.
All Helen could do to blot out the disaster was curl up on her bed and sob herself to sleep.
That fateful night transformed Helen. Some say she never fully recovered. Posters of The Gummi Bears, Wuzzles and She-Ra eventually gave way to sleeveless images of a young Brad Pitt.
Helen kissed Brad goodnight.
Later, Helen embarked on a series of relationships with numerous movie stars, including Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt. But it wasn’t all romance with the glitterati. Through all this, Helen remained humble to her roots.
The poor image quality of video 8 footage showed surly teenage Helen puffing her way through a sponsored run, hating every minute of it.
She never lost her love of the outdoors, and frequently donated her precious time to charity events.
A photograph, complete with the pink blur of a finger in the corner, showed a poolside teenage Helen posing with a swimming certificate.
Helen received many plaudits during her distinguished life, mixing with influential figures of the era.
Helen possessed a selection of photographic evidence: A chance street encounter with Timmy Mallet. A requested signed photo of Keith Chegwin. Dave Lee Travis at a Radio One roadshow.
Teenage Helen meandered through a shopping mall, ten steps behind her parents as she window-shopped at her favourite stores: Our Price. Tammy. Athena.
Ever keen to explore the world, she once circumnavigated Lakewater Shopping Centre in less than ten hours.
Helen exited Woolworths, holding the door open for a shopper out of politeness. The shopper passed through without acknowledgement, let alone any gratitude or thanks.
She was a discreet young woman. Her good deeds often went unnoticed.
In her late teens, Helen introduced a select few to her unenthusiastic parents. A floppy-haired baggy with a pudding bowl haircut. A shell-suited football yob. A straw-haired Iron Maiden fan. Each introduction drew a frostier response until her parents finally lost all interest.
Helen’s romantic conquests were much scrutinised.
Dancing on her own at the local nightclub, Helen tried her best to appeal to the opposite sex, who were pre-disposed to the girls who could dance. It was only at the point of giving up hope of finding a boyfriend that double-denimed Craig blocked her exit.
She met Craig in a nightclub. It was love at first sight according to her closest companions.
Helen’s first proper kiss was stolen in a moment of drunken entitlement. A stranger in a strobing sea of mindless euphoria. In the next breath, Helen was curled into a ball on her bed, devastation pouring into her pillow.
After that one night of passion, she never saw Craig again.
An array of on-the-fly snapshots charted Helen’s progression through her twenties. Helen’s inner Paparazzi, collating her thoughtful, determined, business-like intensity.
Helen threw herself into work. Soon enough, fate would draw Helen towards success once again.
In the reception of a trendily-anonymous Soho Media Company, Helen perched on a two-seater black leather sofa. With dour eyes, she candidly observed the receptionist slathering her dry hands in emollient cream, idly nattering into her telephone headset.
Helen’s career went from strength to strength, driven by a determination for greatness.
Helen replaced a Henry hoover into a narrow cupboard, gently kicking it further towards the back. She didn’t need to turn to know someone was blocking the door. Her leery boss, all curly wet hair and low-rent Michael Hutchence smirk. She had no idea if he was wearing that blue and white tiny chequered shirt, but he probably was.
But her career was rocked by a sordid scandal which threatened to derail her glorious future.
Accepting the inevitable, she turned with a half-smile, attempting to leave the cupboard. But her boss was having none of it. Purchasing Screen International from an Oxford Street newsagent, Helen sat in Soho Square, praying to be blessed by the employment fairy.
But Helen forged ahead, building a new career for herself in the television industry. Racing up the career ladder, Helen’s career soon plateaued.
A string of short-lived freelance media jobs blurred into each other. All around the corner from each other, each company populated by clones of each other: The erratic drugged-up bullyboy producer. The rudely robotic director who existed on another plane from the rest of mankind. The boozy all-nighters who seemingly slept in the office just to get the work done.
For a while, Helen played the part she thought was required. Endless long days punctuated by an hour or two at the pub whilst the edit suites rendered effects. Ordering Thai takeaways on expenses, eaten in a functional kitchen because it was preferable to a ninety minute journey home and then having to find something to eat. That sinking feeling of acceptance when the bastard machine called a computer decided to throw a wobbly, which translated to a few hours kip on a tiny sofa before it all began again. No wonder Fridays were for expensive bottles of champagne, quaffed on the pavement outside All Bar One.
Helen had successfully emulated those around her, replicated their every move, but the alien inside knew there was a disconnect. Everything around her was a television screen, without so much as a red button to interact with. Without any fanfare goodbye, Helen accepted a job with a huge multi-media company. Less money, more anonymous autonomy.
Alone in the box room edit suite, Helen stitched together another obituary show reel.
Helen finally found her niche; her sanctum. Colleagues wondered at what cost? Had her single-minded career plan vetoed relationships with potential suitors?
Helen’s thirties were evenings in her small flat. Wine glass in hand, cat on lap, TV on.
A woman of our age who had transcended the boundaries of fame through constant reinvention, only to arrive in a forsaken cul-de-sac.
Most nights were spent alone in bed, staring up at the black abyss that was the ceiling.
She frequently pondered her mortality; whether she had done anything truly worth remembering.
Helen’s flat was adorned by ancient photographs of better times. Of people long gone.
She considered her long-deceased relatives. Within a few generations, they had become names without faces. Did anyone know the real Helen?
At the age of forty, Helen knew herself, even if nobody else did. She weeded flower beds in her small but brightly coloured and perfectly scented back garden. Freshly cut flowers in a vase in her kitchen. Hours spent drifting in book shops and the library. Sipping a flat white in her favourite coffee shop as she gazed out at the world, watching life play on.
She was exactly where she needed to be. Flawed and archaic, yet happily disenthralled. She was Helen Beige. And she was good.
© Andrew Wright 2023
(Photo courtesy of Sasha Freemind)
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