Young May Moon

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘Can I borrow your dancing shoes?’ Pomona wheedled. ‘My feet are nearly as big as yours now, May. I’m nine years old, remember.’

  ‘Not until January, you’re not. How can I forget, when you keep reminding me? Oh, all right. But don’t scuff the toes, will you?’

  At last the scripts were typed by Bea and May on the rector’s antiquated typewriter, and the final casting took place.

  Bea could hardly believe her ears – had she really got the main part: Cinderella?

  ‘Don’t cut your hair before January,’ Imogen told her.

  ‘But it’s all straggly—’

  ‘Just right for the early scenes! You can wear a wig to the ball!’

  Imogen read out the rest of the list: ‘Baron Hardup, George. Baroness, Pat. Fairy Godmother, myself. Vera will be Buttons, she’s good at learning lines … The Ugly sisters, I think you will all agree that Henry and Denzil are a good pairing. They’ll be quite unrecognizable with plenty of greasepaint, and frightful wigs. Prince Charming, a small part though an important one, requiring a pair of shapely legs, goes to Young May Moon! Terence, you can be the Prince’s page.’

  Now they’re all looking at my legs, May thought, embarrassed. I wish Imogen wouldn’t call me Young May Moon – she sounds rather mocking when she does. it’s the family name for me, after all.

  Pomona whispered to Terence: ‘May won’t be the only one wearing tights – you will be, too!’

  Terence muttered, ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  ‘I’ll do it, if you don’t want to,’ offered Pomona. She hadn’t been offered a part; she was only in the crowd scenes. ‘You can be my understudy.’

  ‘No thanks! You sounded just like Imogen then. You can ask her. I’m not going to get a clip round the ear.’

  ‘She wouldn’t – would she?’

  ‘She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, she can’t abide children. We’re a necessary evil she says, in a pantomime.’

  Imogen’s response: ‘I do the casting!’ had their ears ringing from her exasperated shriek anyway.

  She continued in a more moderate tone: ‘May, I’ve had a bright idea about how we could fill the intervals during the change of scenes. Could one of your puppets appear through the gap in the closed curtains and entertain the audience? No script needed, just ad lib. You’d be unseen, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ May did not intend to sound ironic. Not Punch, she thought, he needs refurbishing, but the substitute Dog Toby that Paddy made for me, would do.

  ‘It wasn’t her idea,’ Terence whispered to Pomona, ‘it was Henry’s. He thought your sister ought to have a bigger part. Imogen’s jealous because May has more acting experience than she has herself.’

  ‘Ready to go home?’ Denzil asked when Imogen declared the meeting closed.

  They didn’t drive past the Moat House on this occasion. ‘My mother said she’d really like to meet you,’ Denzil said. ‘What d’you say?’

  ‘Ooh, yes please!’ Pomona spoke for both of them.

  The moat was almost devoid of water, but there was a plank bridge across to the old house. Denzil drove over it at speed. May screwed her eyes up tight but Pomona, emitting a shriek of excitement, didn’t want to miss a thing. They drew up outside the entrance to the house. The walls were smothered in ivy, some of the windows were badly cracked, and the bell push on the massive oak doors didn’t work, as Pomona soon discovered when she tried it.

  The door was opened anyway, not by a maid, but by Denzil’s mother herself, wiping fingers sticky with dough on a voluminous apron.

  ‘I thought you might like a bit of company, Mother,’ Denzil said, ushering them into a large, empty hall. ‘Let me introduce you: this is Young May Moon as we call her. She’s one of the Singing Kettles – our most talented member in my opinion, and this is her sister, Pomona. They live with their aunt, Mrs Jarvis at Orchard End. Ladies, my mother, Mrs Twistleton-Pike, who prefers to be called plain Mrs Pike.’

  ‘Your father kept quiet about the Twistleton when we first met in London, so I followed suit. He’d fallen out with his father after his mother died, and he decided on an army career, instead of managing the estate. We didn’t move here until after I was widowed, and Denzil’s grandfather finally asked to meet his grandson because he was now his heir. Come into the kitchen, the warmest place in the house.’ Mrs Pike led the way. ‘I’ve only recently taken up cooking,’ she continued. ‘Since our cook-housekeeper packed her bags, Denzil and I have been left to cope on our own, apart from a woman who cleans the rooms that we inhabit. But you are welcome to try one of my scones when they are ready.’

  ‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ Denzil offered.

  It was a cavernous kitchen, with rows of copper pans hanging from hooks on the whitewashed walls. Some of them, May couldn’t help noticing, were festooned with cobwebs. They were evidently not in use, now that there were only two persons in residence. There were several sizes of mixing bowls stacked on the shelves, but Mrs Pike had obviously mixed her scones in a pudding bowl, which had been to hand. She flapped a tea cloth over the table to remove spilled flour. ‘I won’t say take off your winter wrappings, or you’ll soon be shivering … Denzil, give the stove a riddle, will you? I’ll get the scones out of the oven first, though. Now, tell me about yourselves. I understand you have a theatrical background?’

  ‘Not exactly. Our father was Professor Jas Jolley – he was a professor of Punch and Judy, in case you’re wondering—’

  ‘If he was a real professor,’ Pomona finished for her embarrassed sister.

  ‘How marvellous!’ Mrs Pike sounded as if she meant it.

  ‘Mother is rather bohemian herself.’ Denzil filled the teapot with water from the kettle on the stove.

  ‘Oh, do you think so, dear? My father was an artist, my mother was his model. We lived in Bloomsbury, but not in a garret. Father actually made money from his painting; nudes are always popular.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t show them those particular pictures,’ Denzil smiled.

  ‘Why not?’ Pomona demanded. She could guess, of course.

  ‘Pomona, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’ May thought that Denzil must have noticed her blushes. She added: ‘We mustn’t stay too long, as Aunt Min will wonder where we are. The scones are lovely, Mrs Pike. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you for coming. I do hope Denzil will bring you to see me again soon. I’ll entertain you in the drawing room then; there are plenty of pictures in there.’ Mrs Pike had a twinkle in her eye. She was older than May had thought she would be, probably in her fifties; still upright and handsome, like her son.

  Pomona rushed indoors to tell Min about their unexpected visit, while May said goodbye and thank you to Denzil at the gate. It was almost dark; time for their six o’clock supper. She held out her hand to him. He took her by surprise, pulling her towards him and cupping her face between his hands. The next thing she knew, he was kissing her.

  She murmured. ‘Please, Denzil, don’t….’

  ‘You wanted me to kiss you, didn’t you? I wouldn’t dream of taking further liberties, but there’s no harm in a kiss between friends. You’re a very attractive girl, May, and in a few years you’ll have been much kissed. Am I the first?’

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about Paddy just now. She gave an involuntary gasp as his lips brushed her closed eyes. ‘Have I sent you to sleep?’ he teased.

  Then came the call from Aunt Min: ‘Don’t stand out there and freeze, May, supper’s ready!’

  ‘Goodnight, Denzil,’ she said firmly. He released her without another word. She was quivering, but not because of the cold.

  Eighteen

  MID-DECEMBER THERE was the Singing Kettle’s Christmas party. ‘Fancy dress – no exceptions,’ Imogen said firmly. ‘We will provide the entertainment ourselves. My parents have kindly agreed to buy the food and drink. Fruit punch for all. No alcohol in the church hall!’

  Pomona and May discussed what they
would wear. Aunt Min sat knitting busily in her chair by the living-room fireplace, unaware that the cat was playing with her ball of wool which had rolled off her lap to the floor. ‘What about the dress your mother bought you, May?’

  ‘I’ve worn that green frock so often. It’s not fancy dress, is it?’

  Pomona had the answer. ‘How about Mum’s dance frock?’

  ‘I’d be expected to perform the flamenco then!’

  ‘Well? Henry plays the guitar. He could accompany you.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m tired of sewing; my fingertips are sore when it comes to typing.’

  ‘You should wear a thimble.’ Aunt Min’s needles clicked.

  ‘I’ve decided to go as an apple,’ Pomona announced. ‘I’ve worked it all out: two circles of cardboard like a billboard, back and front, I’ll just slip it over my head after I’ve sloshed on plenty of red and green paint, and add paper apple-leaves in my hair, as the only ones left round here are all wrinkled and brown.’

  ‘Terence could go as a pear—’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking – we’d be a pair, then! No thanks. The invitation says, you are welcome to bring a guest. Shall we invite Danny and Paddy?’

  ‘Oh, Pom, they couldn’t possibly travel all this way just for an evening out. I wish you could come, Aunt Min, but I know you can’t leave Grandpa.’

  Aunt Min was picking up a dropped stitch with the aid of a crochet hook. ‘I might be able to bring him to the pantomime – that could catch his attention.’

  Pomona sighed. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll see the O’Flahertys again.’

  ‘One day we will,’ May said, but she didn’t believe it herself.

  It was the party night. It had been a grey, cold day and, when it came to it, the girls were reluctant to leave the warmth of the living room with the fire burning bright. There was never a shortage of wood, which they gathered most days from the orchard and its surrounds.

  ‘Don’t stand about outside, waiting for the car,’ Aunt Min advised. ‘Toby’ll let us know when Denzil arrives, and no doubt he’ll honk that dratted horn. Look, take the rugs from the sofa and drape them round your shoulders. I don’t need to have you go down with poo-monia.’

  ‘Red-checked one for me.’ Pomona seized it.

  ‘That leaves me with the blue one with the frayed fringe. That’s the one Toby curls up on at nights; it smells doggy and you can see all the white hairs—’

  ‘Stop arguing, you two. Just think you’re lucky it’s not raining, or worse, snowing,’ Aunt Min scolded.

  Toby’s ears pricked up; she rushed to the door at the loud knock.

  ‘Thought I should escort you to the gate,’ Denzil said. ‘To make sure you didn’t slip up in the dark. I understand they’ve been invited to stay the night at the rectory, so I’ll deliver them there after the party, Mrs Jarvis. Hang on to me on either side, you two.’

  Pomona had a brown-paper parcel containing her apple billboard under one arm. May was wearing her costume and would have been shivering without the blanket. She bent to pick up their overnight bag. They were excited at the thought of spending the night with Bea.

  ‘Allow me to take that.’ Denzil took the bag from May and they set off down the track. He was wearing a dark old-fashioned cloak which, they guessed, was a relic of his grandfather’s youth.

  ‘Have a good time!’ Aunt Min called after them.

  The hall was brightly lit and transformed with paper chains and other homespun decorations. Denzil removed his cape and revealed his outfit. ‘King Charles the Second!’ exclaimed Pomona as he donned a dark wig. ‘Where’s Nell Gwynn?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said a familiar voice. Imogen had a wig too, with tumbling curls and a basket full or oranges. ‘Denzil, my parents are waiting to speak to you.’

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ Denzil said to his companions.

  May helped Pomona adjust the apple boards, then fastened the leaves in her hair. It had been too much to expect, she thought ruefully, that he would stay with us….

  ‘She should have stuffed a couple of those oranges down her front,’ Pomona said, loudly. ‘She doesn’t have enough bosom for Nell Gwynn, does she?’

  ‘Shush, Pom.’ May thought, those two have obviously hired their costumes. My outfit looks well-worn, which it is, and it smells fusty from being in the trunk. But at least it’s genuine. I hadn’t realized it would reveal my cleavage, too, but now I have more to show off than I did only a few months ago, even though I probably smell doggy from the blanket and of carbolic soap. I wish Aunt Min would buy soap that smelled nicer. I wish Paddy was my escort this evening.’ She fingered her pendant. The glowing amber was warm against her skin.

  ‘I couldn’t make up my mind what to come as, until the last minute,’ Bea said as she joined them, to their relief. They’d been wondering where she’d got to.

  ‘What are you?’ Pomona asked tactlessly. Bea appeared to be wearing her mother’s unfashionable clothes and hat.

  ‘A suffragette – look, read my banner: VOTES FOR WOMEN!’

  The stage curtains parted, and Henry, who had borrowed his friend’s cape and wore a deerstalker cap which looked as if it was a left-over from a jumble sale, was revealed as Sherlock Holmes, with a pile of records on a chair and a gramophone on a small table. His assistant, Dr Watson, complete with false moustache, was his young brother.

  ‘We’ll start with a lively number to break the ice: The Charleston. Don’t say you can’t do it: Imogen and Denzil will demonstrate how.’ Henry used a megaphone to gain the party goers’ attention.

  ‘I’m not sure I can dance in these boards,’ moaned the apple.

  ‘I won’t need my castanets,’ said Young Carmen. ‘Let’s get behind the others and follow what the front row do.’ They shuffled sheepishly round those who were eager to join in. This was followed by the Paul Jones. May and Pomona joined the circle. The music stopped and she found herself opposite Denzil. He smiled. ‘Señorita, may I have the pleasure of this dance?’

  May felt the pressure of his hand on her back as he guided her in the waltz. She nodded when he asked if she was enjoying herself. The music changed; she was swept back into the circle to grasp Nell Gwynn’s hand on one side and Bea’s on the other.

  After they had enjoyed a splendid buffet it was time for the entertainment. There was some clumsy conjuring involving a top hat and a toy rabbit; a duet, and a couple of lengthy monologues. Then Henry picked up his guitar and announced: ‘Young Carmen.’ May flashed an indignant glance at Pomona, who’d obviously told him after all that it was the odious Carlos’s name for her. She hoped Henry had practised the music beforehand and that she could remember the sequence of steps. Her mother’s dancing-shoes would help.

  The spotlight was on her, the lights dimmed in the hall. May was suddenly confident: Carmen would have been proud of her performance. There was silence for a brief moment when she finished dancing and the music died away, then the clapping and shouts of ‘encore’ began. May seemed frozen to the spot. Henry came to her rescue; he put down his guitar, moved beside her, his arm around her shoulders. Together they bowed. Then he led her off stage.

  ‘Well, you stole the show,’ Imogen told her. She made it sound like a reproof.

  ‘She certainly did,’ Denzil agreed. ‘You were wonderful, May.’

  The party was over.

  The bed May shared with Pomona in one of the smaller bedrooms in the rectory, felt cold and clammy. The hardy Wright family did not have hot-water bottles to alleviate the initial shock of jumping under the covers.

  ‘It was a lovely party. I had two of those cream horns,’ Pomona confessed. She actually snuggled up to her sister. ‘I wish you didn’t have such cold feet.’

  ‘So do I. Let’s put our rugs over the bedclothes, even if they do pong a bit.’

  ‘Aren’t you lucky? Two young men after you. If old Imogen had thought to bring her fairy godmother wand along, she could have waved it and transformed you into a mouse!’

>   ‘I felt like a mouse beside her. Two young men? I didn’t notice—’

  ‘Don’t fib! Denzil and Henry. Bea told me Henry is looking out for a sidecar for his bike, so he can take us home in future.’

  ‘And don’t you be so silly! They’re good friends, not rivals! I like them both.’

  ‘Yes, but you keep blushing when Denzil talks to you. Just like you did when Paddy was around, in West Wick last summer. I s’pose you’ve forgotten him?’

  May placed the palm of her hand over the amber on her pendant. It still meant a lot to her. ‘No, of course, I haven’t. Go to sleep, Pom, do.’ She lay awake for some time herself after that. How can I be so foolish? As Denzil said, it was a kiss between friends. That was all.

  Nineteen

  THEY WOKE ON Christmas morning to a powdering of snow. It actually felt warmer, but there was the threat of a heavier fall to come. It was a Friday this year, so Boxing Day was on Sunday, which would make the break seem longer.

  The girls were soon up and dressed and downstairs by the fire to open their Christmas sacks which they’d filled for each other. Grandpa was intrigued by his clockwork novelties, sending them across the floor where they toppled over when they came into contact with the rag rug. He took a childlike pleasure in winding them up and hearing them whirr. May and Pomona’s gift to him, a tin donkey covered in grey felt, with a whizzing-round tail and ears, was already a favourite. He set this one off on the kitchen table, where it collided with the salt-pot: Aunt Min rushed to scoop up the spilt salt and to throw it over her left shoulder, a superstition they all followed.