The Testament of Judith Barton

By Wendy Powers

Judy Barton may be the most-watched and least-understood woman in movie history. Generations of viewers think Ferguson tells us all we need to know when he sputters, "You were his girl!" at the movie's climax. But what if the woman we've come to sympathize with is neither Elster's mistress, nor a willing accessory to murder?

Kirkus Reviews says, "Barton is telling her own tale this time around - that turns out to be a good thing...Ultimately, this is a serious work. Barton doesn't acquit herself a half century after her fatal plunge, but she does spread the blame around to where it belongs. A multifaceted journey for devotees of Vertigo to contemplate and enjoy."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Powers
• Release date: Dec 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465937926

Wendy Powers

While writing this novel, Wendy, Robin and their white cat Pearl lived on a hill overlooking San Francisco’s Ocean Beach. They now reside in Byrd Park, Richmond, Virginia.

Book preview

The Testament of Judith Barton

A Novel

by Wendy Powers & Robin McLeod

Incorporating characters and dialogue from Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo,

original screenplay by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor;

excerpts used with permission of The Alfred Hitchcock Trust

Copyright 2011 Wendy Powers & Robin McLeod

smashwords edition

PRAISE FOR

THE TESTAMENT OF JUDITH BARTON

The ethereal beauty of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1958 masterpiece has more to say, and that turns out to be a good thing. This is a serious work, a multifaceted journey for devotees of Vertigo to contemplate and enjoy.

– Kirkus Reviews

An excellent novel that stands on its own, shoulder to shoulder in quality with the work it admires. I felt I was really getting to know Judy for the first time.

– Dan Auiler, author, Vertigo: The Making of a Hitchcock Classic

4 out of 5 stars -- Powers & McLeod produce a solid novel. Hitchcock fans will appreciate this homage to one of his classic and complex heroines.

– San Francisco Book Review

The backstory works so well. The tone, the mixture of banality, sweetness, vulnerability and strength in Judy, all seem to be what I'd imagine.

– Molly Haskell, author, From Reverence to Rape: The Treatment of Women in the Movies

If you've ever wondered what happened before and after Vertigo, and if you've tried to replay its story with yourself as one of the characters, you should read this entertaining novel.

– David Thomson, author, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film

A masterful tale – an instant classic. Powers & McLeod shine light on an angle of Vertigo the world has failed to see in 50 years of looking. It's been well worth the wait.

– David Louden, author, Lost Angeles

Makes the events that unfold even more heartbreaking than they were on film, and opened my eyes to new perceptions of something I thought I knew completely. I found myself unable to put The Testament of Judith Barton down. 

– From Midnight, film blog

The Testament of Judith Barton fills in a lot of blanks, and provides a richer personality and a deeper understanding of one of cinema history’s most mysterious icy blonde heroines.

– Carrie Specht, blogger, Classic Film School

Mesmerizing – I was captivated by its sense of foreboding. A well-written and - researched psychological thriller, the can’t put down type.

– Susan Russo Anderson, author, Death of a Serpent

Lays out a rich background for Judy Barton. You may find yourself rooting for her to find a way to escape her fate in The Testament of Judith Barton.

– Adam Philips, blogger, Hitchcock and Me

Rich, troubling, and engrossing -- even knowing Judy's fate, I kept hoping that something would change, and that was entirely due to the hold this riveting tale had on me.

– Classic Movies, blog

The Testament of Judith Barton is an excellent pick for fans of the film and alternate takes on film in general. Very much recommended reading.

– Michael Dunford, Midwest Book Review

Get to know the character of Judy as a three-dimensional woman. The Testament of Judith Barton gives new understanding to her motives and Vertigo's plot.

– Let's Book It, literary blog

Alters your perception of Hitchcock’s film by cleverly highlighting the misfortune and folly of Judy’s character…tightly written with reverence for the source material.

– Battle Royal with Cheese, film blog

I was looking forward to seeing the events of the movie from Judith’s perspective, but I was surprised by how wrapped up I became with her life in Kansas.

– Hollywood Revue, film blog

Powers & McLeod have created a fine, compelling and fascinating portrait of Judy Barton.

– Pretty Clever Films, blog

Table of Contents

Prologue: Twin Peaks

Act One: Salina

Act Two: San Francisco

Act Three: San Juan Bautista

Authors’ Note on the Story’s Source

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

"I have a new idea about the story,

that it should be told from the start,

from the lady’s own angle.

Indeed, I keep having crazy ideas."

–Angus MacPhail, screenwriter,

to Hitchcock’s assistant Herbert Coleman;

MacPhail was not hired

Prologue: Twin Peaks

It would’ve been easier if I’d become his mistress.

He walked me out of the hotel’s opulent lobby, into its cobbled courtyard. We’d gone out for drinks, and the martinis we’d had in the bar were going to my head, if not to his. Shall I call you a taxi? he asked, his hand on the small of my back. Before I could answer, he waved one over.

A yellow-and-black inched forward from the queue. I could feel the eyes of the cabbie on me, moving up and down my body, drinking in my skin, the fabric of my dress and what was underneath.

Gavin Elster leaned into the driver’s window, whispered a few words, opened the rear door for me – and followed me in.

Judy, I’ll accompany you home, he said with his predictable assurance. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, wasn’t it? My head was spinning, I shouldn’t have had that second drink.

I lived only a few blocks away. It would’ve been just as easy to walk, and maybe safer than the situation I was in now. At least the foggy chill would have cleared my head. But here in the warmth of the back seat, with Elster’s left hand resting lightly on my shoulder, I was almost drowsy.

The taxi tipped sharply down Powell, but where the cabbie should have turned right on Sutter to take me home, he kept going towards Market Street.

Oh, we should have turned there, I protested, only mildly, I confess. I could see where we were going.

And we did turn right, eventually, on Market, near the cable car turnaround. For every block we drove, Elster’s hand slipped another inch down my arm. We made our way along Market Street, past upscale stores and banks closed for the night, neon-lit movie theatres, bums and sailors. Ladies in hats and white gloves, no older than I at twenty-five but protected by the rings on their fingers, were hurrying home along the wet sidewalks. The soft lights of San Francisco, signals blinking on dark asphalt, shimmered over the misty streets like some mirage … only by now I was too intoxicated with the warmth of the drinks and the swaying taxi, and too conscious of his roaming hands, to notice.

He was discreet. In his mirror the driver could not have seen the hand brushing along my breast, or the other sliding smoothly up my calf. Call me Gavin, he said with equal fluidity. He kept his face an appropriate few inches from mine, and kept his talk small. I didn’t stop him yet.

I’ve asked our driver to take us for a little tour before taking you home. Not that far, I promise, only up the next hill.

We were crossing Castro Street, now winding up Market to the top of Twin Peaks. His left hand had found my knee, pushed the fabric of my skirt aside, and was working its way up my leg as steadily as the taxi’s engine pushed up the hill. By the time we reached the summit on the twisting road I was a little dizzy. He’d found the top of my stockings, and the bare skin underneath.

I thought about his wife. Then he brought her up.

The Indians had a story about these two mountains, he said as casually as if his hands were in his own lap. They said the mountain was one at first, a couple united in marriage, but they argued so much that the gods split them in two.

Like I said, he was discreet. Gavin Elster was more than clever enough to allude to one thing while pursuing another.

My eyes had closed, so I didn’t quite know where we were. But my body was waking up to one skillful hand on my sweater and the other under my skirt, so I hardly noticed the gentle bump when the taxi stopped.

The driver was catching on. I’ll go for a smoke, if you don’t mind, I heard him say through the dark. He might have added, The meter’s running.

So was mine. I’d let Elster take me this far, and I admit I enjoyed his attention and finesse, but I hadn’t decided what I wanted. He obviously had.

He planted his smooth, insistent mouth on mine, though the hairs of his mustache bristled against my lips. Then his tongue was at my earlobe, alternately kissing it and whispering, his breath whistling in my ear.

When the Spanish adventurers passed here, they called these two peaks ‘Los Pechos de la Chola,’ he said, his voice so close it heated my skin. The breasts of the Indian maiden. Now both his hands had found their way under my sweater, and were nearing the fabric of my brassier. But her breasts are no lovelier than yours, Judy, and he leaned down to kiss one – No more perfectly rounded – then the other – or full…" his lips moving back and forth between them.

I pulled him up by his shoulders and nipped at his ear. But if the Indians thought the peaks were man and wife, what happened to the husband? I cooed, playing the coquette. Where had he gone, by the time the Spanish came?

He let out a deep sigh that clouded the back seat with the mingled aromas of vermouth and expensive cologne that I could already smell on my skin.

Ah. Perhaps he ran away, his wife hectored him so. But she could not possibly have been as beautiful as you, or he would never have left.

He pressed his flattery with more long minutes of caresses and kisses, as I submitted and resisted, seduced and reluctant.

Judy, I’ve been so unhappy, he murmured. My wife, she is so … devout, so cold. If anything ever happened to her…, his tongue tickled my ear, then his lips pushed in to whisper: You could be… the second Mrs. Elster.

He had miscalculated. Such talk about his wife, rather than arousing any sympathy in me, jolted me to my senses. I did remember what my upbringing said about adultery. I would not be his concubine.

I wrenched myself out of his arms and clambered out of the taxi, my sweater askew, a stocking falling down, stumbling on a dangling heel. I needed air.

A chilly breeze blew back the fog, and I saw where I was – high above San Francisco, nearly its tallest point, three times higher than any peak I’d climbed at home. I saw the whole city, and it saw me, half undressed, its lights winking at me through the mist. And there was Elster’s breath on my neck, and his hands on my shoulders.

I whirled on him. What do you think I am, some girl in a French novel?

No. I was a girl from Kansas, still finding my way in this dizzying city of fog and hills.

Act One: Salina

"Vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling

and the desire to fall."

– Salman Rushdie

Judy, what are you hiding behind your back?

Standing behind the counter in his shop, I turned to face my father as he emerged from the back room.

His workplace was divided into two unequal parts. The front reception area was so small it would have seemed cramped if not for Father’s hospitality when a customer brought in a bracelet or carried in a clock. The room was no more than seven feet by nine. A leather chair, faded by light and softened by use, mine most of all, sat in the corner. There was no space for a second, and Papa always invited his guest to take the seat. A counter of oak, the color of the Kansas prairie baked in the summer sun, faced the front door, its glass top often smudged by a seven-year-old girl’s fingers as I peered into the case. Here he displayed a few items for sale; the back room, where he actually worked, was much larger.

I was proud of Father’s work. He could repair most any piece of jewelry brought to him – and the watches! How startled I was to see him pry open the backs of the delicate little cases entrusted to his care.

Papa, I was just looking at this rock, I answered, revealing the necklace in my palm.

Gemstone, he corrected mildly, and it’s called a ruby. Don’t startle so, poppin, I know you weren’t hiding it. He smiled, placing his palm over the crown of my head.

Maggie would love it! It’s her favorite color. So dramatic – how would she say? I tried to mimic my older sister’s cultured tones, It would show well on the stage.

Yes, very good, Father said with a chuckle. Maggie was not quite ten, but already acting in church pageants.

Picking up the ruby from my outstretched hand, Papa opened the counter gate and carried the gem to the windows. Your sister would like this. She’s always attracted to the reds.

The repair work Father kept in back. This necklace, brought in that morning and placed under the counter, hadn’t made it there yet.

I slipped under the triangle made by his arm and the raised gate, and went to the window; outside hung the edge of his sign, Nethers & Barton Hardware. It was simple, drawn without picture or flourish. He should have designed the sign himself, I told him, because I knew he could have painted something beautiful. But he’d left the sign to his partner. Mostly Papa did watch repair, he was good at it and made a steady income. Once he’d even been asked to repair the town clock on the First National Bank building at the crossroads of downtown Salina. This clock couldn’t exactly come to him, and so I’d watched him climb the tall ladder and open the face to fix the big mechanism.

But when he had a spare hour, Father would craft his own jewelry pieces.

And from time to time, one of the wealthier ladies in town – there were still a few, even during the 30’s – would bring him a bracelet or necklace to repair, if the setting was loose or the clasp wasn’t catching. The ruby in his hand hung from a gold chain long enough for a necklace.

Look at this, Judy, he beamed, holding it up to the light streaming through the window. The shop faced west, and the afternoon sun was bright enough for him to read a stone’s worth. Mrs. Holroyd brought it in today, to see if I could make the clasp secure again. See where it’s loose?

How will you fix it?

I’ll show you, but first look through this ruby. See the color? he asked, turning it round and round on the chain. This shade is called pigeon-blood red – don’t make a face!

It’s an awful name!

It’s just what it’s called, and by it you’ll know the finest rubies. Cheaper ones are light red or even pink in hue. And see how you lose your vision in the middle, if you stare straight into it, you can’t see through it? he asked, handing it back to me.

I’d been blinking so long into the sunlight I had spots before my eyes. Yes, Papa, I answered.

If you can see through the cut facets to the back of the stone, it’s poor; if the ruby is so muddy with inclusions you can’t see through it at all, it’s also poor. This one is just right: your eye is drawn into the stone and lost there. We both stared into it, hypnotized for a moment.

Can you keep a secret, for a long time?

I nodded vigorously.

Father smiled. Someday I’d like to buy a ruby like this for Maggie.

Really, could you?

Yes, and set it myself. And another stone for you, perhaps.

I looked up in expectation.

But rubies aren’t your favorite, are they?

I shook my head.

Perhaps something more subtle, he offered. Well, you’ll figure out your favorite in good time. Probably before I’ve saved the money for it, he said, winking. "Seems like dreaming, your mother would say. But we’ve held onto our little house and job through these lean years, and have plenty of time yet before you girls graduate high school.

Come watch me fix the clasp, he prompted, holding the necklace in one hand and guiding me by the shoulder under the counter gate with the other.

The back room was three times the size of the reception area. The noise, however, was seven or eight times as much: repaired clocks, waiting for their owners, hung on the workroom walls, mechanisms whirring and pendulums swinging. The watches ticked quietly, but all the clocks clanked and rang on time, a deep ringing I sometimes heard in my sleep.

My father, as I remember him now, was a kindly man. His hair was still thick but prematurely white, almost platinum; he’d been blonde as a young man, blonde like Maggie, and she had his blue eyes. He was tall and slender, but his shoulders and back had been rounded by the workbench, his eyes near-sighted from the intricate labor. His hands, though, remained steady and strong as a sculptor’s. He never quite sat, but perched on a high stool over his bench, where he laid out the gem’s chain.

See this, the spring isn’t clicking, he demonstrated, moving it back and forth. It’s keeping the loop from catching.

He re-seated the spring with tweezers finer than those Maggie used on her well-groomed eyebrows and a pair of pliers smaller than one of the dollhouse toys I’d lost in the backyard.

I stopped here most days on my way home from school, to watch him work with the small, fine tools. Off popped the back of a watch, and I’d be afraid the insides would spring out; or that a gem would roll away from its setting. But my father’s hands never wavered.

Here, see if you can loosen it, he said, handing the tools to me when he noticed my eyes following his every move.

_____________

Judy, dinner time! Mother called from the screen door. Your father’s home, and Maggie’s already set the table.

In the backyard, spinning in circles on the tree swing, I’d see how dizzy I could make myself before tumbling into the soft grass. I stayed outside long as I could these early June evenings, while the dusk fell and the heat waned. The humid air clung to my skin, but at least the yard was shaded by this hour, and the thermometer on the back porch had dropped out of the nineties.

Maggie and I had played together like this in the backyard when we were younger, and I stayed on there long after she retired indoors for more ladylike pursuits, saying she was too old for the trees and the swing. She insisted I was too, but I paid her no mind.

What’s on the table? I asked, bounding in hungry, after climbing down from my perch in the branches of the backyard walnut tree. Other than visiting Papa’s shop, I wanted nothing more than to be outside, so I was glad we ate dinner late those months when he worked longer in the summertime. But Mother had called, so I hurried inside.

Years had passed since I’d begun watching Father work, though my life felt little different other than the advent of the War. My sister had grown into a sophisticated teenager, but I still felt like a little girl. Maggie had stepped into high-heels and stockings, while I had callused feet and scarred knees; she bought make-up, I got freckles. Where Maggie was blonde, I was brunette; she was delicate, I was strong; she was slender, I was sturdy, as our mother put it. I had dark hair like Mother, and my skin was tanned. I had her eyes, too, a mossy agate green, while Maggie’s eyes were blue, like a London topaz, Father said. Mother said we looked alike in the face, but I couldn’t see it.

Neither could most of the boys. They stole glances or outright stared at my sister. We wore the same grey uniform, but it was Maggie they watched stroll along the sidewalk that divided our schools.

Mother didn’t mind that I stayed outside so much, since Maggie helped in the house, chores like the dishwashing or changing the linens. But I did the laundry, pinning it on the line in the back yard. That way I could stay outside even longer, bending and stretching in the humid breeze, free after finally hanging up my school uniform and heavy black shoes. Father laughed at me, calling me a tomboy – almost as good as having a son – while he called Maggie a princess. The first-born with the title, he’d proclaim.

Maggie was only a year ahead of me in school, if nearly two years by the calendar, but she sounded like our mother already. Take your spoon out of there, she said as I stole a scoop of sweet potatoes. Wait till we’re seated. It was an exchange we had most every evening, like she was practicing her refinement on me. Maggie was blonde and glamorous, a gardenia in a wheat field, with a style and grace beyond her age – she had studied it on the silver screen Saturday afternoons, with Veronica Lake for a teacher.

I ate my fill, while Maggie picked at her food even though she’d helped prepare it. Despite the heat, I was always hungry after an afternoon outside, and tonight’s chicken fried steak smothered in gravy was a favorite.

In places with far-away names like Bastogne and Leyte Gulf, World War Two raged on, and came to our table every evening on the cathedral radio. Down the street the war had taken a family’s eldest son. But tonight the news on the radio suggested that recent Allied advances might end the War, and our parents were feeling upbeat. Recalling it now, though, what mattered most to me was that my father wasn’t drafted. I was so relieved that he didn’t enlist, it didn’t occur to me to ask why.

If you don’t eat more yourself, Mary Margaret, we’ll think you poisoned our dinner, Father laughed.

She’s watching her figure, Mother commented.

"Make this child her favorite dishes, then, so she can’t help but

Reviews for The Testament of Judith Barton

[danaburgess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the tradition of Wicked and other retellings, The Testament of Judith Barton gives the reader a new and interesting perspective of the classic Hitchcock movie "Vertigo". Now, I'm not in any way suggesting that this book hits the same level of greatness as Wicked, but it is a darn good book.Wendy Powers and Robin McLeod have a writing style that is clear and engaging. It is fun to get to know the character of Judy as a three dimensional woman with a history that predates what we see in the movie and gives new understanding to her motives and the movie plot. I admit to being a die-hard Hitchcock fan, so I may be a little biased, but I think this novel would appeal to the reader on it's own merits.