Young May Moon

by Sheila Newberry

  Min raised no objection to May’s going out one evening in the week, so long as she was assured of a lift home afterwards. ‘I’m not having you wandering the lanes in the dark, young May Moon.’

  ‘Oh, Bea says she’ll arrange an escort,’ May said airily.

  May enjoyed her first visit to Bea’s home, and meeting her family. Bea’s sister, Selina was nineteen. She didn’t go out to work as she suffered from asthma, so stayed at home to help her mother. They had an older brother, Henry, who’ d gained his degree this summer after three years at Cambridge.

  ‘I see the Singing Kettles are having auditions soon. I’ll put our names down – they left a list in the church porch,’ Bea told May. She glanced at Henry, but he seemed oblivious to the chatter at the tea table. Bea murmured: ‘He’s a member already but he didn’t tell me about the audition, of course.’

  There was also a clever twelve-year-old, Terence, much indulged by his sisters, who instantly reminded May of Pomona. The family lived in the rectory, for their father had taken holy orders after his army service, and was now rector of the church on the outskirts of town. The congregation was much diminished from pre-war days, but the Reverend Osmund Wright was determined, in his quiet way, to turn things round. He was particularly aware of the needs of the young as well as the old in the community.

  May soon realized that the Wrights were just as hard-up as her own family, but were generous in welcoming friends to their table. They appeared to eat a great deal of soup, chunky with vegetables but not much meat. Emma Wright, whom Bea much resembled, had an inspired touch with herbs and seasoning: the bowls were brimming, and the bread basket full of large, crusty chunks torn from a new loaf. ‘The staff of life,’ the rector observed. Grace was recited, however humble the meal.

  On May’s first visit the family were indeed concerned about how she would get home that evening, as there was no late bus. Henry, who was aloof from his siblings now that he was twenty-one, surprised May by offering her a lift home on the back of his motorcycle. He usually had his nose in a book, which precluded conversation with younger visitors.

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ May exclaimed. She was embarrassed by the general amusement at her response. Fortunately, Henry didn’t appear to notice, but merely turned another page in his book. No-one remonstrated with him for reading at the table. It was that sort of family. As with the O’Flahertys, she felt like one of them.

  Henry, however, was nothing like Paddy. He was not very tall, was slightly built, pale-faced, with spectacles which slipped down his nose. He was not the stuff of young girls’ dreams.

  ‘Henry,’ Bea said casually, ‘as I may have mentioned, is a founder member of the Singing Kettles. They’re putting on a pantomime this Christmas.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I can influence the others regarding your possible membership,’ he said, without looking up from his reading.

  ‘We’ll get in on our own merits,’ Bea flashed back. She grinned at May. ‘I expect you’re glad you’ve only got a sister, eh?’

  ‘You haven’t met Pomona yet,’ May said with feeling.

  May’s first pillion ride was both exhilarating and frightening. She clung on to Henry, arms round his waist, face pressed against the rough tweed of his jacket. As she didn’t have goggles her eyes watered each time she ventured to look where they were going. When they came to a corner, she was convinced she’d be thrown off; she was conscious that her skirt was riding up above her knees and that she’d laddered her stockings. However, by the time they reached the farm track, she was more relaxed and loosened her grip, despite the bumping over the ruts.

  It was nine o’clock, the time she had promised to be home. There was still a light showing in the kitchen and a lantern hung in the porch. No electricity here, but there was the pervasive smell of oil lamps.

  The motorcycle engine cut out. Henry dismounted and helped her to alight. He looked comical to May, in a close fitting leather cap that buckled under his chin, and goggles pushed up on to his forehead. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat. ‘Not so bad, was it?’ She shook her head. She was still shaking a bit. ‘Well, goodnight, then.’ He grasped her hand, his was still encased in its gauntlet.

  ‘Goodnight, and thank you,’ May replied. She waited while he wheeled the motorcycle back to the gate, which he closed behind him.

  The door opened, and Aunt Min stood there, peering beyond May. ‘Why didn’t you invite your young man in to meet me, May?’

  ‘He’s not my young man! We’ve only exchanged half a dozen words so far!’ She was cross at Aunt Min’s assumption. She thought: I suppose I felt the same when I met Paddy, and Jenny and Brigid were keen to pair us off, but I soon realized I liked him. However, I’m not attracted to Henry at all!

  ‘You’d better set to and darn them stockings before you go to bed,’ Aunt Min said in her usual forthright way. ‘Money don’t grow on trees, despite Pomona being named for a goddess. Though if it did, you could buy a dozen new pairs.’

  The Singing Kettles met in the church hall on Friday evenings.

  ‘Don’t be intimidated by Imogen, the producer,’ Bea advised May, ‘Her grandfather was a Shakespearian actor, so she thinks she knows it all. Her father’s the local bank manager and she went to an exclusive boarding school. She was head girl there, and she’s still bossy. I met her when she came over to ask Henry to write the panto script. She said they’ve got some good singers, including Henry.’

  ‘Oh,’ May responded, not sure whether she believed that Henry could sing.

  ‘It seems they’re all very earnest types and older than us. They can do with a bit of stirring up!’

  ‘I’m game for that!’ Shades of Punch, May thought.

  Imogen reminded May of the hotel receptionist in West Wick. Imogen had ash-blonde hair; rouged cheeks and lips; she wore a knitted jumper suit, belted round her narrow hips with a wide black patent leather belt with a silver buckle.

  She stared long and hard at May and Bea before she drawled: ‘What experience have you had in the performing arts?’

  ‘School plays,’ Bea volunteered, ‘Don’t you remember me? Henry’s sister.’

  ‘I suppose you imagine that that will sway my judgement? Can you sing – can you dance – can you act?’

  ‘I’m told I can. Anyway, you can teach me, can’t you?’

  Imogen actually smiled. ‘Why not? I like your attitude. Beatrice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bea.’

  ‘And you are?’ Imogen turned her attention to May.

  ‘May Jolley.’

  ‘Is that your real name?’

  ‘Yes, but my family call me Young May Moon.’ May thought: why on earth did I tell her that?

  ‘That’s a jig, isn’t it?’ Imogen said unexpectedly. ‘Does that mean you can dance?’

  ‘Yes. My mother is a professional dancer.’

  ‘Good. You sing, too?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Any stage experience?’

  ‘Some … I – well, I’ve worked with puppets.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that!’ Bea interjected.

  ‘My father was Professor Jas Jolley, the Punch and Judy man.’ The sudden break in the surrounding conversation meant that others were listening in, May realized.

  ‘How exciting!’ Imogen sounded as if she meant it. ‘Did you assist him?’

  ‘Actually,’ May said diffidently, ‘I took over from him this past summer season, but I am now training as a shorthand typist.’

  ‘Welcome to the Singing Kettles,’ Imogen said graciously. ‘The auditions will take place after singing practice – go to the end of the line-up. We’ve appointed your brother choirmaster, Bea.’

  Henry put down his notebook, in which he had been industriously writing, picked up a baton, and waited for the clearing of throats to cease. As an accomplished singer himself, he was listening intently for any signs of real talent. Any wobbly high notes made him visibly flinch. However he kept his comments to himself until
after the practice.

  ‘Too many would-be sopranos – and that includes the fellows,’ he began, with a sigh, then followed that with: ‘But that can be remedied.’ He spoke to each one in turn. ‘Bea – you’re good with harmonies, I know. May – nice tone, but you forced the top notes. Pat, good range, but not much expression. Imogen, excellent breath control. George, pleasant baritone. Vera, a genuine soprano – your singing lessons paid off.’ Last of all he came to a young man who’d arrived late. ‘Denzil, we could do with you in the church choir, as I keep telling you in vain. Will you all practise your scales during the week, and we might manage a song or two next time. Thank you.’

  Imogen took May and Bea backstage. ‘Easier to talk to you here. Excuse me, while I find out if refreshments are on offer.’

  It was musty in the cramped space which served as a dressing-room. May could picture it on performance days, with actors reprising their lines anxiously, and costume changes taking place behind the screen. It reminded her of the pier at West Wick. Still ruffled by Henry’s remark, she said to Bea: ‘You say that Henry is writing the pantomime script. He doesn’t seem very humorous.’

  Bea grinned. ‘You could be surprised! May, you’re a dark horse, too, not telling me what an interesting life you’ve led!’

  ‘I – thought – you, being a vicar’s daughter, might not approve!’

  ‘Well, you must realize by now that we’re very irreverent in some ways! I know you lost your father early this year, and that must be awful for you. Have you always lived with your aunt?’

  ‘Yes, except when we were at West Wick, each summer. My mother is Spanish; she moved back to her birthplace a few years ago, while Pom and I remained with my father. She’s a dancer, as I told Imogen – a flamenco dancer, in fact. Her name is Carmen. Before you ask, we saw her this summer and our relationship is easier now.’

  ‘Here you are, a cup of tea and a soggy biscuit – sorry, I’m not good with trays.’ Imogen placed it on a card table. ‘Now, let’s talk. May, you first. What do you think you can offer the Singing Kettles?’

  ‘Well, I imagine you’re really keen on Gilbert and Sullivan.’

  ‘We are. But we’re not good enough for that, yet.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that appearing on the End-of-the-Pier show and Punch and Judy shows is like pantomime, at times!’

  Bea butted in: ‘Same as coming from a big family, jostling for attention and trying to make yourself heard!’

  May and Bea went in turn through the door leading to the stage. Someone had pulled the faded curtains, and it was time to walk front stage, aware of the row of chairs below and the expectant faces. The exception was Henry, who only shifted his gaze from his notebook when May began to speak.

  She prayed that the single sheet of paper wouldn’t tremble in her hands. She’d chosen her piece with encouragement from Bea, but didn’t feel confident enough without the prompt, even though the words were familiar ones she’d recited at school. She tilted her chin. ‘“You are old, Father William, the young man said …”’ She’d been trained by her father, after all, to project her voice.

  To her audience, she looked rather like Alice in Wonderland, having changed at the rectory into her best frock, and been persuaded by Bea to let her hair hang long and loose, swept back from her forehead by a band borrowed from Selina.

  The applause was warm. May focused on one smiling face in particular. Denzil, who’d arrived late and to whom she had not yet been introduced. He waved, when he caught her eye. She blushed.

  ‘Your enunciation is excellent,’ Imogen said, ‘though you suppress your body language. You’re rather rigid.’

  The criticism didn’t surprise May, after all, she was used to acting unseen by an audience, the puppets being on stage. She’d only shed that self-consciousness when she danced as Young May Moon, and then Young Carmen at West Wick.

  The stage steps were not in place. Two young men rose from their seats to give her a hand down. The languid Henry, surprisingly, was quicker than Denzil, which disappointed May. However, she found herself sitting between them.

  Bea had done her homework; she memorized the extract from The History of Mr Polly, by H.G. Wells. Without her glasses, as she said she preferred to view the audience as a blur, her eyes seemed larger, luminous. She had a gift for acting, May realized; for Bea, on that empty stage, conjured up the dingy room where Mr Polly contemplated escape from a dreary marriage.

  ‘Bea, there will definitely be a role for you in the pantomime,’ Imogen informed her. She hadn’t said that to May.

  ‘Would you like a lift home?’ Denzil asked May. ‘My motor is parked outside.’

  She hesitated, ‘Well, I usually go on the back of Henry’s bike.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Henry said, as if it was of no importance to him, ‘I can vouch for Denzil.’

  ‘Oh…?’

  ‘We were at Cambridge together,’ Denzil enlightened her. ‘Anyway, I live not far from you, at the Moat House. D’you know it?’

  ‘I’ve … seen it, of course, from a distance.’ It appeared to be a ruin of a place, neglected for years, she thought. Rather spooky. The Thistleton-Pikes had lived there for generations.

  ‘When you’re ready then.’

  ‘Before you go,’ Imogen called out, ‘we shall need some young members of the cast – for crowd scenes, singing, dancing, so bring any suitable children to our next monthly Saturday afternoon meeting.’

  ‘Pomona would love that!’ May exclaimed.

  ‘So would Terence. Time they met!’ Bea agreed.

  Seventeen

  ‘I’D RATHER HAVE ridden on the back of your Henry’s motorbike!’ Pomona exclaimed, disappointed to hear from May that Denzil was collecting them in his motor for the Saturday afternoon meeting of the Singing Kettles.

  ‘Before you think of calling him that, he’s not my Denzil, either!’

  ‘Wear your woolly hat and scarf, dear,’ counselled Aunt Min. ‘You’ll get the wind in your hair in that open-top motor. Don’t he feel the cold? It’s getting on for November, not many leaves left on the trees.’

  ‘He’s used to draughts, I reckon; the old Moat House looks as if it could do with a new roof,’ May said. Both she and Pomona were keen to see inside the house, but so far had not been invited to do so.

  ‘Well, he inherited it from his grandfather while he was away at Cambridge. He lost his father in the war, as you know, and I reckon he’s taking his time wondering what to do with the estate. Why is he cavorting on stage when he ought to be balancing the books?’

  ‘Bea told me that Henry thinks Denzil would rather be an actor,’ May said. He was dashing enough, she thought, to be in films, being so tall, athletic and self-confident. That rich, deep voice sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine whenever he spoke to her. He certainly wasn’t a snob. He would be aware that he must buckle down to work soon and get on with restoring his run-down family estate. It didn’t seem likely that he would be a Singing Kettle for long, and he was the best-looking man there. May certainly wasn’t the only one bowled over by his charm; as Bea remarked to May in private, ‘Imogen sticks to him like glue! Mind you, she’s older than he is. Rumour has it she’s getting on for thirty, but her family are rich, and I heard his mother expects him to marry well!’

  ‘You have to give up fancy ideas and do what needs doing.’ Aunt Min looked at May, jolting her out of her reverie: ‘That’s so, ain’t it?’

  May nodded. She means, like me giving up Punch and Judy. ‘Toby’s barking,’ she said. ‘Denzil has arrived.’

  Pomona wasn’t in awe of the senior Singing Kettles, but she and Terence studiously ignored each other. He was a weedy boy with a shock of hair; he was myopic, like the rest of his family, with the bridge of his glasses mended with tape, following a tumble from his bicycle. Two other youngsters brought along by one of the members were well-behaved at present, but Pomona thought that the older of the pair, who’d made a face at her when she thought her
elder sister wasn’t looking, had possibilities. In return, Pomona pulled out the corners of her mouth with her thumbs and grinned hideously. The other girls giggled.

  ‘You can sing?’ Imogen enquired sharply.

  ‘I’ve got a loud voice as you can hear,’ was Pomona’s cheeky reply.

  ‘You won’t be a soloist,’ Imogen said crisply. ‘Can you dance?’

  ‘My aunt says I’ve got two left feet. I like swimming better.’

  ‘No swimming scene in Cinderella! What can you do?’

  ‘I can get an audience going. I like playing a part – and I can do acrobatics. Ask May!’

  ‘I have. She says you’re a natural performer.’

  ‘She usually calls me a show-off.’

  ‘In other words, you’re an extrovert. I’m hoping your sister will take you kids in hand and show you a few simple dance steps.’

  Pomona shrugged. ‘Mum tried to teach me, but she got fed up. May’s different. She could have been a flamenco dancer, too, you know, but she gave up her dreams to look after me.’

  ‘Pom!’ May was embarrassed. ‘Flamenco isn’t expected in pantomime.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Imogen said. ‘However, I’m sure we can make good use of your talents, May. So much to do behind the scenes.’

  May couldn’t help smiling to herself. Obviously, I’m not going to be Cinderella, even though I feel like that, at times.

  Bea whispered in her ear: ‘Only room for one leading lady here –and it’s obvious who she is.’

  The pantomime was no longer just an idea, it was becoming a reality. The Kettles teamed up with a local musical trio: elderly ladies, accomplished in piano, violin and flute. Terence brought an African tom-tom drum from home and demonstrated that he could enhance the beat. Pomona was relieved, as she’d thought she might be landed with him as a dancing partner. Henry was responsible for the script. He arranged for a friend to be in charge of the footlights.

  May found herself involved with sewing costumes, along with the other girls, and making props, mostly fashioned from cardboard. She also, at Henry’s diffident suggestion, penned some catchy rhyming lyrics, which he then put to music. She found that fun to do. It reminded her of the scripts she and her father had written for the Punch and Judy shows. The whole cast had a hand in painting the backdrops, on sheets, spread out on newspaper on the floor and then pegged out to dry. May also taught the children, whose numbers swelled week by week when word went round the school, how to dance a jig.