Felicity - Stands By

by Richmal Crompton

  “Devious ways,” said Franklin. “Some are born to the stage, some attain the stage, and some have the stage thrust upon them.”

  “Thrust upon one sounds the best way—the least trouble, I mean. What do you do to have it thrust upon you, Frankie?”

  “Well, you can make a hit in an amateur show or a concert party somewhere and London’s greatest manager—who has been listening and watching incog, at the back with rapture and amazement—comes up to you at the end with tears streaming down his cheeks, clasps your hand, and says: ‘My boy—or my girl, as the case may be—will you join us at the Hipposeum at a thousand pounds a day. This paltry sum is just to start on. We will, of course, increase your salary materially after the first week or so.’ ”

  Felicity drew a deep breath.

  “It does sound nice,” she said. “Do you happen to know of any amateur show in need of a heroine?”

  “No,” said Franklin, “I don’t. You see, it’s the heroine who always gets them up. She collects a little committee and says: ‘Let’s act a play. Now who’s to be the heroine? I can’t think of anyone to be heroine—of course, I couldn’t do it.’ Then the committee says: ‘Of course you can, dear. You’re just the person.’ So it’s all fixed up.”

  “You’ve a nasty cynical mind, Frankie,” said Felicity. “I’ve suspected it for some time. But the stage is quite an idea. Thank you so much for suggesting it. Goodbye.”

  She went up to her bedroom, struck a tragic attitude before her looking-glass, and said in a sepulchral voice:

  “ ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?

  “ ‘The handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch it.

  “ ‘I have—–’ ”

  She took a quick, stealthy step forward in the manner of the old tragedians and fell over a small footstool. She picked herself up and rubbed her shins. Then she flung her long gleaming plait over her shoulders and struck a fresh attitude.

  “To be or not to be, that is the question.”

  She looked around furtively, stepped backwards and fell over a small chair. She picked herself up again and rubbed her shins again.

  “Not Shakespeare, I think,” she remarked rather severely to her dressing-table. “I don’t think Shakespeare’s going to be lucky for me.”

  Then she flitted down the back stairs to Mrs. French’s room.

  “Good-morning, dearie,” she said.

  “Good-morning,” said Felicity, sitting down upon a small footstool by the window. “Doesn’t the half-hour before lunch when you’re really hungry seem to last for hours and hours?”

  Mrs. French went to a cupboard. From the cupboard she brought out a large tin. Felicity had known that tin from childhood. She clasped her knees hard with both arms and screwed up her face.

  “Oh, scrummy,” she said—“brandy snaps!”

  Still beaming, Mrs. French put the tin on the floor by Felicity.

  “There, dearie,” she said.

  Felicity began to nibble brandy snaps with small, white teeth. Felicity was still at the age when a morning’s reckless consumption of cakes does not in any way impair one’s appetite for lunch.

  “I’m going on the stage, Mrs. French,” said Felicity cheerfully.

  “Well, I never, dearie,” said Mrs. French, still beaming.

  “Just till I’ve made four hundred pounds,” said Felicity. “I shall probably come off the stage then.”

  “Well, I never did,” said Mrs. French again.

  “Tragedy, I think,” went on Felicity; “but not Shakespeare. Something like this.”

  She leapt up from her footstool and struck another attitude.

  “A-ha! Villain, wouldst thou?” she said through her teeth, addressing the footstool from which she had arisen, “I hate thee, I spurn thee! F-hare well!”

  She flung herself tragically from the room, colliding violently with Moult, the butler, who was carrying a loaded tray past the door. Moult and the tray sat down and Felicity, with a look of horror and a murmured apology, fled. Her last vision was of Moult sitting motionless in a ruin of broken crockery and looking after her reproachfully.

  She and Franklin had lunch alone.

  “Comedy, I think it will be,” she said to Franklin— “not tragedy.”

  “I’ve heard,” said Franklin, “that tragedy is much easier.”

  “It may be,” said Felicity, “but things get in your way so.”

  Lady Montague, Felicity’s aunt, did not officially live at the Hall, but she spent a good deal of her time there. When she was not actually staying at the Hall she lived at the Dower House at the end of the park, which, from Felicity’s point of view, was almost as bad. At this time, however, much to Felicity’s relief, she was staying with friends in Scotland. Before she went she had arranged Felicity’s time-table. She had arranged for the French master to come on Monday, the Italian master on Tuesday, the music master on Wednesday, and the singing master on Thursday, and for Felicity to go up to town to a dancing lesson with her maid on Friday. She said that Felicity must give Saturday entirely to music practising and foreign languages, except perhaps for a short drive with her grandfather. Needless to say, Felicity did none of these things. To-day was Thursday. Directly after lunch she went to the telephone.

  “Please tell Mr. Sladyn,” she said in her aunt’s best manner, “that Miss Felicity Harborough will be unable to have her lesson this afternoon.” Then she hung up the receiver, whistling gaily to herself.

  Half an hour later, accompanied by an Irish terrier, a Great Dane, and a Sealyham, she was swinging blithely across the park. At the end of the park she vaulted lightly over the low wall into the road and swung on, still whistling.

  Then she stopped. A motor-car stood by the roadside, and by it stood a tall, lugubrious-looking man. A fluffy, fair-haired girl sat near him on a suit-case, and another man was evidently beneath the car. All that could be seen of him was a stout pair of boots. Tinker, the Irish terrier, didn’t like the boots, and fell upon them with growling fury. Felicity called him off and apologised.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, holding him by the collar. “He’s all right, really. He just doesn’t like boots when he can’t see the rest of the person.”

  The rest of the person slowly extricated itself from beneath the car and brought to light a short, stout man, with a round and cheerful countenance freely bedewed with mingled perspiration and oil.

  “He won’t mind you now,” said Felicity. “Has something gone wrong?”

  The short, fat man grinned, and the tall, thin one groaned, simultaneously.

  “It’s our unlucky day,” said the fat man. “Everything that could go wrong is going wrong or has gone wrong.”

  Felicity nodded wisely.

  “I know that sort of day,” she said. “Buttons come off and you’re late for breakfast and you spill coffee on to your best dress, and everyone else seems in a beastly temper all the time.”

  “That’s it,” said the fat man. “You’ve hit it. We’ve had that sort of trouble, but worse, ever since we got up.”

  Felicity sat on the running-board of the car, her head cupped in her hands, her auburn plait over her shoulder.

  “Do tell me your troubles,” she said, “I love hearing about people’s troubles!”

  “Well,” said the fat man, “I’ll introduce us first. I’m Percy, and he,” pointing to the thin man, “is Freddy, and she,” pointing to the girl, “is Peggy.”

  “Just Christian names?” said Felicity. “How nice!”

  “We haven’t any surnames,” said the fat man solemnly. “We’re ‘The Oranges,’ a concert party at Westsea, and we perform on the front every afternoon at three o’clock prompt, wet or fine. There are only the four of us.”

  “Four of you,” said Felicity slowly, looking round. “Where’s the fourth?”

  “Ah,” said the fat man, “that’s one of the troubles!” The thin man groaned again. “The fourth is Rosie, and we went to give a show at Frean last night, and t
his morning Rosie has a headache.”

  “Not what you think,” said the thin man dismally. “She only had stone ginger for dinner and she went to bed directly after the show.”

  “I didn’t think anything,” said Felicity with spirit.

  “Anyway,” said the fat man, “Rosie’s headache is so bad that she couldn’t come back to Westsea with us, and we haven’t been able to get anyone to take her place, and—and it’ll be a wash-out. You see, Peggy’s voice is a contralto and Rosie’s is a soprano, so Peggy can’t take on her things. And who ever heard of a concert party of only three? Four is rather select and chic, but three—three’s ludicrous! Peggy found a pal who’d do it—but, oh my, such a fright! One sight of her face would have emptied the beach! You see, it’s got to be voice and appearance.”

  “W-would I do?” said Felicity rather anxiously. “Would you take me?”

  The fat man looked at her.

  “You—you don’t mean it?” he said. “You aren’t serious?”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” said Felicity. “I’m looking for an opening on the stage, and I think this would do very well as a beginning.”

  The fat man was still looking at her.

  “Can you sing?” he said.

  “I’ve just begun to learn—soprano,” said Felicity.

  “Can you dance?”

  “More or less,” said Felicity. “I can soon pick anything up.”

  “B-but what about your people? Would they let you?”

  “I’m my own mistress,” said Felicity very haughtily.

  The tall, thin man broke in excitedly.

  “Stop arguing!” he said. “Show her the things. She—she’s wonderful. She—she’ll make the show, I tell you. What do you say, Peggy?”

  Peggy looked Felicity up and down.

  “She’s a peach,” she said slowly, “but—oh lord, look at her hair and think of the colour of our togs! It’ll kill them stone dead!”

  Consternation came into all faces.

  “What’s the matter?” said Felicity, aghast.

  “Our costumes,” said the fat man, “are orange slightly diluted by the strong rays of the summer sun. Peggy’s right. Your hair would kill them stone dead. It would show them up for the faded rags they are. Rosie is dark.’’ Felicity stared in front of her in dismay, then with a little scream of excitement took out Ronald’s pound note. “Could I hire a black wig with this?” she said.

  The fat man turned head over heels in the road. He returned to normal position with a coating of dust dimming his coating of perspiration and oil, but by no means dimming the radiance of his smile.

  “She’s got a brain! She’s got a brain!” he chanted. “Just the thing! We’ll get one in Westsea. I don’t know your name, Miss—er—um—but you’ll have to be Rosie. The public of Westsea is used to Rosie. When can you be ready?”

  Felicity pulled off Tinker, who was worrying the fat man’s boots again. The Great Dane was sitting serenely by Peggy and the Sealyham was hunting for rabbits in the ditch.

  “Now. Any time. I’ll take the dogs to the corner of the road and send them home. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Right, Rosie. We’ll be getting out the things you’ll want and then we’ll run through the show with you.” Felicity returned dogless in a few minutes. Peggy was just taking from a small case an orange-coloured pierrette dress with black ruff and belt. She held it against Felicity.

  “Just right,” she said. “Might have been made for you. When we get your black wig you’ll look a treat . . . Now about the songs.”

  She sat down on the running-board beside Felicity and took some songs out of a case. The thin man sat down on the roadside and stared lugubriously at Felicity. The fat man disappeared beneath the car again. Felicity hummed the songs over. She soon picked up tunes and words. “Smile here . . . sigh here” . . . commanded Peggy.

  “You’d better do them just as Rosie does them. The public expects it.”

  Finally Felicity stood up and sang one through, smiles, sighs, and all. Felicity had a very sweet, clear voice.

  “By Jove!” said the thin man, overcome by his emotion. “By—by Jove!”

  “Rather sloppy affairs, aren’t they?” said Felicity.

  “They’re what the public likes,” said Peggy. “Now for the dance. You only do one. With me.”

  Felicity was as light as thistledown and as graceful as a silver birch. In five minutes she had picked up the dance. The fat man, who had come from under the motor-car with another coating of oil and perspiration, turned head over heels again with delight, and acquired yet another coating of dust.

  “Well,” he said, “there’s just time to get to Westsea and get the wig before the show begins.”

  “Will the car go?” said Peggy.

  “How can I tell till I’ve tried?” said the fat man.

  He got into the steering seat and drove the car forward for two yards, then stopped it.

  “Yes, it goes,” he said. “Pack in.”

  “What was wrong with it?” said the thin man mournfully. “What did you do to it?”

  “I don’t know,” said the fat man cheerfully. “I never know. I just take things out and put them back and sometimes it makes it go and sometimes it doesn’t. Ready, Rosie?”

  “The Oranges” concert had begun and both the enclosure of chairs in front of them and the beach in the immediate vicinity were crowded. Regular patrons had already discovered the fact that there was a “new Rosie” and were excitedly approving of her. Felicity had had some difficulty with the black curly wig, but had at last managed to put it over her own wealth of bundled hair. An orange bandeau successfully concealed the joinings.

  Percy was excruciatingly funny and Freddy sang mournful songs about the cruel sea and his broken heart in a dismal baritone. Peggy sang old favourites such as “Killarney” and “Annie Laurie,” and had a bright little comic scene with the irrepressible Percy. And Felicity was Rosie. She was Rosie without a hint of self-consciousness and her “turns” were received with rapturous applause.

  There was a five minutes’ interval in the middle, and just before it Felicity danced. She danced gracefully and prettily, yet a close observer might have detected a slight nervousness in her manner. Such an observer also might have seen that at the beginning of the dance she seemed to notice with a start of horror a large, old-fashioned carriage which was coming slowly down the promenade. In the carriage was an elderly gentleman with a very red face, resting his foot on the opposite seat. The carriage slowed down near “The Oranges” stand and the elderly gentleman looked with casual interest at the concert party. Suddenly his attention seemed to be riveted on to one of them. He shouted at the footman seated on the box. He pointed with his stick at the concert party.

  Felicity finished her dance and the five minutes’ interval was announced. Freddy came up to her.

  “It’s too hot for you on the stage,” he whispered with lugubrious solicitude. “I’ve put a deck-chair for you down on the sand in the shadow of the stand. It’ll be cool and more restful for you. No one’ll disturb you. But if they do—if any blighter starts getting fresh with you—you just call ‘Freddie’ and I’ll come and push his face in. I’ll be just on the stand.”

  Felicity went down to the deck-chair he pointed out. But already there was some commotion in the waiting crowd. The elderly, red-faced man was pushing his way through it, uttering snorts of fury and brandishing his stick. He came up to Felicity.

  “You little devil!” he stormed, “How dare you!”

  Felicity looked him haughtily up and down. She showed no emotion at all except indignation at being so addressed.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  He went purple.

  “Who am I?” he said. “You little devil. You—–”

  Felicity put up a languid hand and arranged the black curls of her wig. The elderly gentleman looked at it and faltered. He hadn’t noticed the black hair. He was rather short-sighted, and he’d thought i
t and the bandeau together formed a hat of some sort.

  His mouth dropped open. His fury died away, then gathered force again. As if he didn’t know the little devil’s face, every line of it—hair or no hair.

  “You’ll come straight home with me now—–” he shouted in a tearing rage.

  Felicity had found in the pocket of Rosie’s dress a tiny powder-box and puff. Felicity now held it at arm’s length and powdered her perfect nose. No one watching her would have thought that it was the first time Felicity had ever performed the operation.

  “Freddie!” she called as she did so.

  Freddie at once appeared.

  “This man,’’ said Felicity, pointing to her enraged grandfather, “is getting fresh with me. Please send him away.”

  Now Freddie was not a brave man, but the first sight of Felicity had bowled him over, and the courage of a man in love defending his beloved is proverbial. He advanced upon the purple-faced Sir Digby. “Do you want your face pushed in, sir?” he shouted. “Take yourself off or I’ll call the police!”

  Sir Digby emitted a frenzied bellow of rage and lifted his stick. The footman had seen the disturbance and was hurrying down to him. The crowd were murmuring hostilely against him. Felicity was still calmly powdering her nose. She’d always wanted to know what it was like. She found it rather tickly.

  The footman had seized the stick and was persuading Sir Digby to go back to the carriage. He said he’d only make his foot worse if he didn’t. And Sir Digby, looking furtively at the apparently unselfconscious dark-haired maiden powdering her nose, began to think that perhaps he’d made a fool of himself, and went away with the footman, telling the footman as he went as to what he thought of him. The footman was used to Sir Digby’s bad days and didn’t mind.

  The bell rang for the second part of the programme. Rosie took her place on the platform.

  “What was all the fuss about?” said a young man in the front row to his neighbour.

  “Some old blighter insultin’ of Rosie,” said the neighbour. “Ought to be ashamed of himself at his age.”