by Pamela Brown
‘When am I to go?’
‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll come with you, if you like. I gather your chaperone smashed up the joint last time.’
Maddy giggled reminiscently. ‘What shall I wear?’ she asked.
‘Not black. Not white. Something simple. No frills.’
‘My pale blue?’ asked Maddy, wishing her mother were near to advise her.
‘Blue’s a good colour for television. Yes, I should wear that. It’s at eleven o’clock. I’ll pick you up in front of the Academy at ten-thirty. O.K.?’
‘Thank you so much,’ beamed Maddy, and hurried back into the classroom, where all her friends started mouthing, ‘Have you got it?’
‘Camera audition,’ she whispered back.
‘Quiet, please. We’ve had enough disturbance this afternoon,’ said the geography teacher.
She was a retired headmistress, who came for a few periods a week to instruct the ‘Babies’. She did not enjoy the task, for she felt their minds were not really on geography. The occasional absence of pupils to attend auditions worried her considerably. The ballet shoes and fencing foils left lying about in corners seemed out of place to her, and she disliked the constant theatrical gossip that went on.
‘It’s like a chorus dressing-room, not a classroom,’ she would complain.
Next day Maddy was early at the Academy, which seemed strangely quiet in its Saturday morning calm. Only an isolated student rehearsal was going on, and the cleaners were having a good scrub-out, now that there were few students about to trample on the freshly washed floors.
Maddy, tense with determination, stood on the doorstep and waited for Mr Manyweather. She had just got to be good.
Eventually ‘Agatha’ appeared, looking as eccentric as ever.
‘Hop in,’ shouted Mr Manyweather, who was wearing a strange sort of pirate cap to prevent his hair being blown about. ‘We’ll have to hurry—we’re rather late.’
It was a nightmare journey through the back streets of Kingsway, and Maddy’s carefully combed hair was all over the place by the time they arrived. But there was no time to do anything about it. They were due in the studio.
‘Aren’t I going to have any make-up on?’ demanded Maddy, extremely disappointed.
‘No, I don’t think so. Television make-up is so slight, that they don’t bother with children. Schoolgirl complexions are all right without any make-up.’
‘From what I’ve seen of most schoolgirls’ complexions, they’re jolly spotty,’ observed Maddy.
They were directed to a small studio, smelling strongly of paint, where there was what appeared to be a drawing-room cut in half, with three cameras trained on it, and the same jumble of cables and lights and microphones that Maddy had seen before. In the middle of it all Morgan Evans stood talking to a girl and two boys.
‘Ah, there she is,’ he cried, when he saw Maddy, then, ‘Leon, my dear fellow. How good of you to come along.’
‘I’m doing a spot of chaperoning,’ laughed Mr Manyweather.
‘Glad to have you here. Will you come up in the gallery with me?’
‘No, I think I’m supposed to stay with my charge all the time, aren’t I?’
While they talked Maddy looked hard at the other three. With a sinking heart she saw that the girl was much prettier than she was. She had brown curly hair and large brown eyes, and lovely teeth. There was something very appealing about her. She was talking and laughing with the two boys with complete unconcern, and yet did not give any impression of showing off. The two boys did not seem to present much competition. One had a funny, humorous face with a turned-up nose and freckles, and the other—the better-looking one—was a bit stolid. But whenever Maddy looked at the girl her own hair felt untidier, her nose felt snubbier, and her dress seemed suddenly to be too short for her.
‘Now, I’ve explained the game to the others,’ said Morgan Evans, turning to Maddy. ‘And it’s really very simple. Are you any good at making up poetry?’
Maddy grimaced.
‘Not much.’
‘Well, that’s all the better, because it makes it funnier. You see, the idea of the game is this. We give you three lines of a verse, and you have to make up a last line. The others on the panel decide if it’s good enough to pass. If it’s not, you have to pay a forfeit. And here is our chairman, Derek Lacey.’
He indicated a very suave young man, whom Maddy recognised as a minor film star. He was looking rather bored with the whole thing.
‘Now, shall we start? Let’s make it good—the sponsors are up in the viewing room. I don’t mean sponsors—I mean the editorial board of the magazine. If they like this game it’ll go into the show.’
‘Are they auditioning more than just us four?’ Maddy whispered to Mr Manyweather.
‘No. They’ve narrowed it down to you four. So do your best. Don’t be afraid to laugh, but don’t giggle too often. Morgan Evans told me he liked you very much, but was afraid you might be an incorrigible giggler. So just show that you can control it, will you? Don’t take any notice of the cameras—you don’t need to play to them at all in a panel game.’
Maddy took him at his word and tried to ignore the looming cameras and the suspended mike that swung dangerously over their heads. At first it was difficult, for everything was so strange. They had to sit on quite comfortable chairs in a semicircle, and the question master was at a small desk, with some papers in front of him. They were instructed to smile and say ‘Hullo’ to one of the cameras when their names were announced. The floor manager stood listening on his headphones to Morgan Evans speaking from the control room. Then he pointed to Derek Lacey, who flashed a toothy smile and started off.
‘Hullo, viewers. Today we have a new game for you, called “Poetic Licence”. We’ve four young poets here who are going to show us what they can do, and if they can’t do anything, then they’ll have to pay a forfeit. The idea is that I give each player in turn three lines of a verse, such as
Roses are red,
Dandelions are yellow,
And our producer…
then I stop, and the player has to make up a last line. Now, if he were to add “Is a very fine fellow” he’d be doing very well, wouldn’t he? But if he couldn’t think of a line, then he’d have to pay a forfeit. Now I’ll introduce you to the four would-be poets. First of all, here is Lalage Weinberg. She’s fourteen and goes to school in Hendon. Then sitting next to her is Michael Oxley, who’s thirteen and at school in Hove. Then Madeleine Fayne, who is fourteen and goes to school right in the heart of London.’ Maddy did a rather tremulous grin, and said ‘Hullo’ much too loudly. ‘And finally Philip Manning, also fourteen, who lives in South London and goes to school there. Now, we’re all set to start. Have you got your thinking caps on, poets? Remember it’ll be much worse if you don’t have a shot at a rhyme. Now, here we go.’
Michael Oxley, the freckled boy, couldn’t even make an attempt at the first rhyme, and blushed and ‘hummed’ and ‘hawed’ for so long that eventually the chairman struck a gong and said, ‘I think this calls for a forfeit, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the other three, rather timidly.
Michael’s forfeit was to pick apples out of a bowl of water, with his mouth. He got so wet and dropped them so often that everyone roared with laughter and the ice was broken.
The verse that the other girl was given was quite easy. It was:
‘Come into the garden, Maud,
And take a walk with me,
And then we’ll go indoors again…’
‘And have a cup of tea,’ added Lalage, smiling prettily.
‘Very good,’ praised the chairman. ‘Now, Philip, you must help the male side to pull up a bit. Here’s yours:
‘Oh, who will o’er the hills with me
Upon my motor scooter.
It’s new and shiny as can be…’
Philip went hurriedly through the alphabet, murmuring, ‘booter, cooter, dooter,’ and just as the chairman picked up
the stick with which to strike the gong, he shouted, ‘But hasn’t any hooter.’
‘Jolly good. You nearly got a forfeit, though. Now, Madeleine, here’s yours:
‘Oh where, and oh where
Is my little pussy cat?
She’s black and white and furry…’
Maddy added, ‘But not very fat,’ and heaved a sigh of relief to think that the first round was over.
As it became more difficult to find rhymes the answers grew wilder, so that eventually all the players were having to pay forfeits. Maddy quite forgot that it was a camera audition and began to enjoy herself. Even the chairman unbent a little, and dropped his obviously rehearsed attitudes. The worst forfeit Maddy had was to recite ‘Sister Susie’ while eating a jam puff.
The players were enjoying themselves so much that they were quite surprised when the floor manager made a sign to the chairman, who said, ‘Well, that’s all for today, I’m afraid. So it’s goodbye to you from me, Derek Lacey, and from our four young poets. Say goodbye, all of you.’
The floor manager indicated a camera for them to say goodbye into, and they all chorused goodbyes. Maddy was furious because Lalage blew a kiss towards the camera. She wished Mrs Bosham were there to call her a ‘soppy ’aporth’.
They stood about, laughing and talking, until Morgan Evans came down from the gallery. As if by magic the studio had emptied; the bright lights were switched off, and the cameramen, boom-swingers, electricians and engineers had disappeared in an instant.
‘Very good,’ cried Morgan Evans as he came into the studio. ‘Really most amusing. We’ve made a telerecording, so that we can decide about it at leisure. Now, I’d like you all to come up and meet the sponsors. Oh, dear me, I keep calling them that, but they’re not sponsors, they’re an editorial board. They’re in the viewing room.’
He led the way along seemingly endless corridors to a small, comfortable room with a deep, soft carpet and an enormous television set in one corner, where several rather large gentlemen sat smoking cigars and drinking sherry. Maddy noticed that they were very different from Morgan Evans. They wore proper suits with jackets and trousers that matched, and had stiff collars. There were four of them, and Derek Lacey promptly monopolised the lot, while Maddy, Lalage and the boys stood in a row looking self-conscious. Maddy found the editorial board rather confusing because all wore horn-rimmed spectacles, which made them look alike. At length the four men managed to escape from Derek Lacey, one at a time, and come over to talk to the children. Each asked exactly the same questions, and said that he had enjoyed the programme very much, but no reference was made to any decision about who should get the job.
‘And do you read The World of Youth?’ said one of the editorial board to Maddy.
‘No,’ replied Maddy.
‘Oh, and why not?’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Don’t have time? But what magazine or periodical do you take?’
‘None.’
‘That’s most extraordinary.’
‘I can’t really afford to,’ said Maddy. ‘I just read any old magazines that people leave lying around at the Academy.’
‘And do they leave The World of Youth?’
‘No,’ said Maddy truthfully. ‘It’s usually either The Stage or Theatre World.’
Her questioner sighed and shook his head, and Maddy was certain that she had given the wrong answers.
At last the boys and girls were allowed to leave. Morgan Evans shook hands with each, saying, ‘You’ll be hearing from us,’ and Mr Manyweather, after a hurried conversation with Morgan Evans, said to Maddy, ‘Come on, it’s lunch-time. I’d better take you back.’
When they were safely ensconced in ‘Agatha’ and she had been manoeuvred out of the parking place, Maddy said, ‘Well?’
‘You did very well,’ he told her. ‘Better than I’d dared to hope. But you’re up against pretty strong competition in that other girl. She’s very pretty, and she’s—well, she’s more feminine than you are.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Maddy agreed glumly. ‘I thought she was just a bit soppy, but she’s—she’s better behaved, somehow.’
‘Oh well, we can’t really tell. Morgan Evans said he thought you were excellent.’
‘But it’s those funny old men with spectacles who have the last say, isn’t it?’ asked Maddy.
‘Yes. And they had said they wanted a blond.’
For the rest of the weekend and throughout Monday and Tuesday Maddy turned over and over in her mind her chances of getting the job. On Wednesday afternoon she was hurrying up the stairs of the schoolhouse, late for an English lesson, when a voice behind her called, ‘Maddy’.
She turned, and there was Mr Manyweather. He took her by the shoulders saying, ‘I was looking for you,’ then, gripping her very firmly he said, ‘You didn’t get it. The other girl did.’
6
LADY LUCK
‘Oh,’ said Maddy.
It was not until then that she realised how much she had been hoping the job might be hers.
‘Cheer up, Maddy,’ said Mr Manyweather, seeing the expression on her face. ‘You did awfully well. They’ll probably remember you for something in the programme—if they use that panel game you may be in it.’
‘But the other girl—that Lalage—she’ll be in it every week.’
‘Yes.’
Maddy nodded miserably. ‘I’ve always been very lucky up till now,’ she remarked.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ Mr Manyweather told her. ‘Now you’re an old stager, and you’ve got to take the knocks, just like everyone else. But I know how you feel. I’m terribly disappointed too. Look, I’ve got two free theatre tickets for the Regent Theatre for tonight. I can’t go as I have a rehearsal, so would you like to have them?’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Maddy, brightening up. ‘And I’ll take Zillah. She’s never been to a theatre, you know. At least not to a real play, and if she’s going to be an actress I think she ought to go. Don’t you?’
‘I certainly do,’ laughed Mr Manyweather—‘if she’s going to be an actress. And here—here’s something to buy ice-cream in the interval.’
And he pressed half a crown into her hand.
‘Thanks awfully,’ said Maddy, and went into the English class not quite so depressed as she had been a few minutes earlier. She could never keep anything to herself for long, however, and choosing a suitable moment she whispered to Buster:
‘I’ve had it.’
‘Had what?’
‘That job. I mean I haven’t got it.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’
Within a few minutes the news had spread round the class and Maddy was receiving sympathetic looks and whispers, but occasionally she caught a gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of those who had gone in for the audition, and had not even got as far as the camera test. Maddy hated to be pitied, so she waved the theatre tickets at Zillah and said, ‘We’re going on the spree tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘The theatre.’
Zillah’s face lit up like a lamp, for one of her biggest ambitions was about to be achieved.
Just then the teacher turned round from the blackboard and said, ‘Why is it always Madeleine Fayne who causes disturbances?’
‘It’s just my nature, I suppose,’ said Maddy despairingly, and the class tittered.
‘If that was intentional impudence you can go outside.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t,’ said Maddy hastily. ‘I’m sorry if it sounded like it.’
‘She’s had a disappointment,’ said Snooks loyally, trying to gloss it over.
‘Oh? I’m sorry to hear that, Maddy. But it can’t be allowed to interfere with our lesson.’
Maddy reflected that schools must be the same the whole world over. At home in Fenchester she had longed to come to the Academy, and when she heard they were opening a junior department, which included general education as well as dramatic training, she had imagined it would all be quit
e different from Fenchester High School, and yet she found the teachers said the same sort of things and the pupils made similar replies.
As soon as classes were over Zillah and Maddy hurried back to Fitzherbert Street, changed and bolted their supper. Then, telling Mrs Bosham that they would be late, they set off.
‘I can’t believe that I be going to the theatre,’ said Zillah. In moments of excitement her grammar still went astray, although she had made enormous strides in this first half of the term.
‘Am going to the theatre,’ Maddy corrected her. ‘Yes, it’s ages since I’ve been. I can’t afford to, on my allowance. I just have to wait for free seats for shows. Still, at the Academy we’re quite lucky about comps., though this term there seem to be more for films or television shows than for theatres.’
The play they saw was very light and frothy and amusing and was extremely well acted. Zillah sat enthralled, hardly saying a word, leaning forward in her seat and drinking it all in. During the interval they had ice-creams, although they were the only people in the stalls to do so.
‘Well, Mr Manyweather more or less told us to,’ Maddy excused herself, curling a pink tongue round the inside of her tub, to the disgust of the elderly gentleman sitting next to her.
When the play was over Zillah still seemed in a trance, and it was not until they were out in the street that she spoke.
‘Wasn’t it wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘So, that’s what we’re going to be—actresses like that. I hadn’t really understood, you know.’
‘You like it better than the cinema then?’ asked Maddy curiously.
‘Oh, yes; this is—real; it’s like the pretence games I used to play,’ said Zillah, without realising the contradiction in what she said.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Maddy. ‘It makes everything else seem false. Yes, I like the theatre best too. I don’t know why I’ve been so worried about that silly old television.’
The thrill of going to the theatre again, the excitement just before the curtain rose and the satisfaction when it fell, had made her feel that there could not possibly be anything more fascinating. They walked back to Fitzherbert Street exalted and overexcited, Zillah in the first throes of being stage-struck, which Maddy had suffered years earlier. They made wild plans for their futures, that included such decisions as, ‘Well, all right, you play leads with the Old Vic, and I’ll buy my own theatre in Drury Lane and be actress-manageress.’