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did not mind all these happenings. I did mind very much indeed. But I could not quite believe they were final. Perhaps, Micawberlike, I kept on hoping that something would turn up. But it never did, and the last of the old assets were disposed of; and the unfortunate debenture-holders — mostly my children and myself — still clinging to the belief that the deeds were worth much more than their face value, received a beggarly seven shillings in the pound. It was clear that the end had really come.
Nevertheless, I clung to what I thought was my good repute and felt sure that as soon as I was known to be free, some other producing company — perhaps several of them — would bid for my services and I should be able to start again without any of the drag of business worries on my shoulders. But that didn't happen.
Nevertheless, I was not down and out or even near it! I felt the fierce bludgeonings but though I was not the master of my fate my head was in a mess but unbowed.
I sold my ship — nasty jar, that — and my car, and drew in horns wherever I could. The Faithfull boys, men rather, true to type as ever, hung around. Stanley's 'still' and enlargement business continued in being, for I had arranged with the receiver to let him carry on till the building was sold, and I went into it with him. When we were cleared out, we three set up in a D. and P. business — developing and printing amateur roll-films — first at Hampton Hill and then at Staines, Middlesex. There I built and patented another developing machine, quite different this time, for roll-films of all sizes. I sold several of the machines for between three and four hundred pounds each, which helped, and later we took in enlarging of stills for the film trade and installed machinery for that. But nothing really paid. I struggled and squirmed and tried many things, but the small capital dwindled and got smaller still.
I was still living at Walton-on-Thames — my daughter, Barbara, was old enough to be mother to the two other children and me, and we moved into a bungalow which was easier to manage than the house. My architect friend, Carvill, had purchased the powerhouse cleared of all its machinery, and turned it into a very jolly little theatre for amateur theatricals and the like. He conceived the idea of starting an amateur operatic society and got hold of a chap who, rather reluctantly, agreed to run it as musical director. He had approached me, for he had been in my little choir, but I told him it was far beyond my capacity. But the other chap
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