The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘And I’m going to look pretty stupid. I have to wear a plastic mac.’

  ‘You and your macs. I’ll definitely get a ticket.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘You don’t come down the Orpheus much these days, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’ Did he care?

  Charlotte came back to the table.

  There was a pause and then Tap stood up, saying, ‘Well, girls, I’m going to love you and leave you. Hope the play goes all right.’ He cocked his head, listening to the music, and sang along with Donnie Elbert that we were gonna knock ’em dead. He turned the chair back to its rightful place, then he leaned down and his lips brushed my cheek. ‘See ya,’ he said, and walked away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Just a lonely boy I know.’

  *

  The pantomime was two weeks away. Now Charlotte and I stayed for the rehearsals. Miss Evans brought several of her art class to watch, standing round in a huddle talking quietly to each other, making sketches on large notepads. They were ‘getting a sense of the play’. They all looked a bit like Miss Evans, and somehow smelt of her intense, powdery perfume. A few days later huge vivid posters appeared in the school corridors and also, fantastically, in places in the town where people might see them. I asked Mr Wainwright if one could go up in the Milk Bar and Charlotte brazenly asked in Snows and the library, and they all said yes. I was torn between embarrassment and elation.

  And Charlotte and I were good. Every time we rehearsed our scenes people sat down to watch and laughed in all the right places and even in the wrong places, when we forgot our lines and made things up. They clapped a lot.

  This is what I want, I thought. Applause. Appreciation. I want to be an actress. I want to stop the show. Perhaps I’d put journalism on hold.

  Now any spare time we had was spent talking about props and costumes. Our characters, Pete and Dud, both wore white mufflers and flat caps. I had my dad’s black plastic mac. Charlotte needed a beige raincoat. She would ask her uncle. Cinderella was making a glorious ballgown for herself out of net curtains. The Fairy Godmother wanted glitter-encrusted shoes and had asked Finch’s for a pair she could decorate. Prince Charming needed transport.

  ‘I can sort that out,’ I said.

  *

  I walked up our road. Ray was outside his house, lying on the pavement doing something to his scooter. The beam of a big torch was trained on the engine. I was still in my school uniform but he wouldn’t notice in the dark, if he was even bothered.

  ‘Watcha Ray,’ I said.

  ‘Watcha,’ he said. He stopped for a moment and grinned at me, then frowned slightly and shook his head. He carried on working, picking up screwdrivers and nuts and bolts.

  ‘Ray,’ I said.

  ‘Yep,’ he said briskly. He was studying something greasy in his hand. ‘Pass me that spanner, will you?’ he said.

  I picked up something metal and hoped it was the right thing.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Would you say your scooter is precious to you?’

  He swivelled round and looked at me. ‘Is that a trick question?’

  ‘Maybe. Does your scooter actually work?’

  ‘Not in its present condition, but usually, yes.’

  ‘Would you ever part with your scooter?’

  ‘Do you want to buy it?’

  ‘No. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in the school play – pantomime, and we need a scooter. I wondered if we could borrow yours.’

  He sat up straight. ‘Well, for one thing, I’m not sure you can come up to me three months since I last saw you and ask me a favour.’

  ‘Is it three months? I’ve been busy. I’ve been . . . at school. You didn’t come that night we were going to the pictures.’

  ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  ‘You . . .!’ I stopped. I was going to say; You are wanted. Which he was. But I wasn’t sure whether it was him I wanted or the scooter. Now. ‘You . . .’

  ‘And for another thing . . .’ He slid down to the engine again. ‘I’ve been busy myself, at night school. I didn’t know you were in a play. Can anyone come?’

  I screwed up my face. ‘Do you really want to come?’

  ‘Why not? And lastly, if you really want the scooter, when, where and how much are you going to give me?’

  ‘You’d have to make the generous gesture for nothing. I might get you a free ticket.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll need a bit more than that. Tell you what, I’ll come into Wainwright’s and you can give me that free coffee you’re always talking about, how’s that?’

  ‘It won’t be free, I’ll have to pay for it.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain. But all right.’

  *

  I wondered if it was too high a price when he came into the Milk Bar the next Saturday. I gave him his coffee and put sixpence from my own pocket into the till. Ray said, ‘Thanks. Here.’ He gave me a record. I looked at him. ‘Early Christmas present,’ he said.

  ‘We haven’t got a record player.’

  ‘You could come and play it round ours.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me this,’ I said as I took it out of the Dace’s bag. It was ‘River Deep and Mountain High’.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but . . . Why have you given me this?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘But the words.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them? They say a lot.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I mean. You can’t say things like that.’

  ‘It’s just a song.’

  ‘Oh, Ray.’

  ‘You’re funny,’ he said. ‘Keep it anyway. Or give it to Val.’ He winked at her. ‘Giving it back to me won’t make it any less true. Keep it, or I’ll tell everyone how cute you look in your school beret.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, but I took the record over to the espresso machine and left it on Elsie’s shelf till I went home.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Pantomime

  IT WAS THE DAY OF THE PANTOMIME. It was after lunch, and we were in the changing rooms preparing for the final dress rehearsal. The changing rooms, between the assembly hall and the dining room on one side and the gym on the other, were normally where classes of girls climbed in and out of divided skirts and Aertex shirts for gym or hockey. Now they had become dressing rooms. And it wasn’t just a different name. The lighting people had put in some extra bulbs above the mirrors so we could see properly to apply our make-up and legitimately gaze at our bright, sparkling reflections.

  Cinderella stood in the doorway and said, ‘Who’s that boy who looks like James Dean, out in the car park?’ Heads turned. One or two people stood up. ‘I was thinking I might ask him to take me for a ride,’ she murmured.

  Almost everyone left the room and rushed to the window of the dining hall. I followed slowly behind. I had a feeling I knew who it was. ‘Oh, he’s luscious,’ said Jane, the Prince’s Best Friend. ‘Do you think he’s coming to the show? Do you think he’ll see us?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s coming.’ It was Ray on his scooter, wearing his white t-shirt and blue jeans, swerving round the teachers’ cars, looking for somewhere to park.

  ‘What night’s he coming?’ Jane said.

  ‘Friday.’ The last night.

  We performed the dress rehearsal in front of the first- and second-years. We did it all: the make-up, the costumes, the rock group from the grammar school. It was almost successful. Even though half of the scenery wasn’t finished, the first-years laughed and clapped all the way through – when the pumpkin was still on stage as the carriage appeared, and when Cinders’ missing slipper fitted a Beverley Sister perfectly and then wouldn’t come off. When Charlotte and I came on, the second-years cheered in a mo
ck-bored kind of way, but clapped, too, and laughed at our best lines.

  Now, three hours later, it was the real thing, the first night, open to the general public. Audience members were already trickling into the school hall. Two of my aunties were coming.

  I was sitting in the changing rooms, trying to quell my nerves. The sound of Mr Wallis, the caretaker, dragging chairs into the back of the hall, drifted into the room. The assistant stage manager, a very organised girl from the fourth year, with a clipboard and some first-year helpers, walked back and forth to the hall carrying piles of boxes, programmes, props. People swept by, muttering their lines: ‘What comes after “Monks are going to matins on their Vespas”?’ and checking their cues: ‘I say, “I’m going on the bus”, and you say, “I’m riding on cloud nine”.’ Cinderella was sitting, shaking under pieces of left-behind sports kit hanging on hooks.

  Charlotte and I weren’t on until a third of the way through. The little ones from the first form who played Mice and Fairies sat with us and asked for help with their shoes and their hair and waited for us to make jokes as we did our make-up. The Panstik had been brought in by Miss Evans, who had a friend in the business. We didn’t really need Panstik, but I liked the ritual of smearing it on, feeling the thick greasiness on my cheeks, watching my face change. I loved it all: the make-up, the costumes, the tension, the knot of fear in my stomach. I drew a creamy stripe of orange down my nose.

  Rosemary called the cast together. ‘You’re all completely marvellous, and it’s going to be a great show,’ she said. ‘The hall’s just over half-full at the moment, and a lot more are expected. The audience have paid good money to attend this evening, and we are going to give them the show of their lives!’

  One of the second-years said weakly, ‘Hooray!’

  ‘And try not to corpse.’ She turned to Charlotte and me. ‘There is nothing worse than a comedy duo laughing at their own jokes.’

  Charlotte and I looked at each other. I’d be lucky if I could remember my lines, let alone laugh at them.

  The lights in the hall dimmed into darkness. People in the audience settled into their seats, a few rustled their programmes, someone gave a last cough and gradually silence fell. Charlotte and I crept into the wings to watch. The curtains opened to reveal the brilliantly lit stage, with the dazzling images of a kitchen with a castle in the distance, that the art department had finished half an hour before. There was a spatter of applause from the auditorium. The Beverley Sisters sat round the table in the middle of the stage, exchanging comments about their clothes, their hair and whether they needed a husband or if they should pursue their careers.

  ‘Why aren’t they laughing?’ I hissed to Charlotte. This scene had received a roar of applause and laughter in the dress rehearsal.

  ‘They’re listening,’ she whispered, draping an arm round my shoulder. ‘These are the school jokes. The adults are trying to understand the story.’

  ‘It’s Cinderella! How much do they need to understand?’

  Then there was a cheer as the handsome prince, Rosemary, looking cool in a parka and a crown, puttered onto the stage on Ray’s Lambretta, the maroon panels smooth and glowing as if Ray had polished them for days.

  In Scene Four, Charlotte and I shuffled onto the stage, in front of the closed curtains, me in Dad’s black plastic mac that came down almost to my ankles and Charlotte in the beige raincoat her uncle had finally donated. There was a ripple of laughter and then silence. ‘We should never have done it,’ I thought. ‘Peter Cook and Dudley Moore are too big to impersonate.’ We moved over to the small round table where we would sit and ruminate about the world and Cinderella, over cups of tea. Perhaps the audience didn’t even know who we were meant to be. I should never have joined the Drama Society. I could have been sitting in the Orpheus staring at a cup of cold coffee. There was a titter and a chuckle I recognised as my Auntie Sheila’s. She probably realised it was Dad’s mac. Then silence again. We sat down.

  *

  We spoke our lines and people clapped and Auntie Sheila laughed. Almost at once, it seemed, the curtains behind us opened and the group stepped forward and started to play. Our first scene was over. The time had flown.

  At the end of the performance Charlotte and I joined the rest of the cast to take a bow. The applause went on. We came off stage and stared at each other. ‘We did it!’ Charlotte whispered.

  One of the first-year Fairies came past. ‘You were really good,’ she said, shyly.

  ‘Thanks, Cherry,’ I said. ‘So were you.’

  *

  It was the last day of term.

  I didn’t care how many people came to the last night, as long as they laughed loudly. But the place was full. Everyone had come; they’d brought their friends, it was standing room only. Charlotte and I peered through the curtains. Sandra was walking in, in her brown leather, looking around to see if she knew anyone. I heard Sylvie’s voice, calling Sandra to join her where she was sitting in the second row. Beside Kenny! Cray, in some new glasses and a fancy dress she had knitted herself, strolled in with other girls from our form and walked to the back row. ‘That’s my fan club,’ I said to Charlotte. ‘I’m expecting them to say they didn’t enjoy it.’

  ‘Ah, you mean critics,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘We love them, we hate them. Oh, look.’ She pointed out her mum and dad, her mum walking very erect and holding a pair of gloves. Then Val and Noelle from the Milk Bar came in, followed by Mrs Grenville from the Quakers with Jeremy, one of her boisterous sons. And just as the lights were going down, Ray ambled into the hall with his complimentary ticket.

  Apart from my classmates, everyone I knew was sitting near the front. I could hear Sylvie’s laugh, warm and gurgling. It was infectious. When Sylvie laughed, people joined in and laughter rippled across the whole hall, as if everyone had just realised what the joke was.

  Then it was time for our entrance and, as we wandered onto the stage under the bright, hot lights, I forgot they were there.

  When we took our final bow Charlotte and I grinned at each other. Rosemary, in her parka and glittering crown, pushed us forward and a huge cheer filled the room. We held hands and bowed. Then Cherry came forward, careful and self-conscious, and gave a bouquet of chrysanthemums to Rosemary for being an excellent director.

  As the curtains closed Rosemary said we had made her proud, we had been great and a pleasure to work with and if she could do it all again she probably wouldn’t. We all clapped and then we left the stage.

  In the changing room for the last time, we slathered on cold cream to wipe off the Panstik. The smell of greasepaint and fresh sweat and Miss Evans’ perfume was everywhere. People were laughing and hugging each other and talking about near disasters: when the Prince’s Lambretta had failed to stop at Cinders’ feet and she had to jump out of the way, and the moment the curtains opened to reveal the grammar school boys standing around chatting because they had forgotten they were in the scene, and Charlotte and I had to step in. ‘You were great!’ Rosemary shouted from the showers. ‘Thank goodness you knew the words to “Poison Ivy”!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I made them up.’

  I was taking off my baggy trousers when there was a knock on the door of the changing room. A small Gnome, still in her green tunic, answered it. ‘It’s for you, Dud,’ she called.

  I went to the door. It was Ray, coming backstage to find his scooter. He grinned at me. ‘You were good,’ he said, ‘but you should have gone on like that. You’d have got even more applause.’ I was wearing Dad’s long white shirt, that stopped just above my knees, and a pair of big socks that were wrinkled round my ankles.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I said. It was good to see him. I leaned against the door. ‘Thanks for coming. I think I heard you laughing.’

  ‘You were funny,’ he said.

  I wanted him to keep talking. ‘I can’t invite you in, there are people changing.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m just being a Stage Door Johnny, an
d I think this is the nearest you’ve got to a stage door.’ He said he’d enjoyed the play and he thought the scooter had performed very well. ‘It sounded really smooth. I was quite proud.’

  ‘It did look very clean,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want a ride home?’

  I gestured to all the people in the changing room. ‘I can’t,’ I said reluctantly. ‘It’s the last night. We’re all saying goodbye. And I’m meeting Sandra,’ I added. I wanted to be everywhere. I touched the side of his face as Rosemary came up, thanking him for the scooter. They went off together to find it, talking about engines and CCs.

  ‘Was that someone offering a lift home?’ Cinderella said innocently, with a pretty smile. ‘I think I’ve missed the last bus.’

  ‘He’s going the other way,’ I said, although I didn’t know where she lived.

  I pulled on my ski pants and Fred Perry and stuffed my costume into my duffel bag. Charlotte came over. ‘Come and meet the parents,’ she said, ‘or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

  We called goodnight to everyone. I slung my bag over my shoulder and we walked out of the changing rooms.

  The hall was still quite full. Mice and Fairies were jumping up and down with their mums and dads. Buttons and the Prince’s Best Friend were talking to some beatniks in the corner. The group were packing up their instruments and swearing because someone had broken something. Charlotte introduced me to her mum and dad.

  Her dad said, ‘Ah, we’ve heard a lot about you, Dud.’ He was trying to do Pete’s cockney accent in his posh voice. Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Dad.’ They offered me a lift home but I said no. Charlotte hugged me. ‘We were good, weren’t we? Let’s make sure we’re both in Pygmalion next term,’ she said.

  Cray rushed up and said, ‘I only realised it was you right at the end! I knew I should have worn my old glasses.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  She slapped me on the back. ‘The others thought you were great, too, though they weren’t sure who Pete and Dud were. They do too much homework. You’ll be off to RADA now, I suppose. If not, I’ll see you next term, dahling.’

  Olivia from YCND came across. ‘You were great. We’ll have to think about a play we can do for CND. You could be a star!’