Patience popped her head round the door at that moment. ‘Choir members, would you make your way up to the stage, please? The concert is just about to start, after Luke has welcomed everybody.’
The men and women of St Bartholomew’s church choir, including Maisie and a few other girls of a similar age, assembled themselves in their correct order – sopranos, altos, tenors and two bass singers – behind the curtain, as the Reverend Luke Fairchild welcomed everyone to the Victory concert.
‘…and what a lot we have to celebrate and be thankful for this evening. So, on with the show, starting off with our own church choir.’
Applause broke out as soon as the curtains, somewhat hesitantly and jerkily, were drawn back to reveal the choir members, the men resplendent in dark suits with red bow ties, and the women in long dresses of varying styles. Rarely were they seen in such magnificence. Mr King, the elderly choir master and organist, but just as competent on the upright piano as the church organ, announced that the opening item would consist of songs by the well-loved Ivor Novello.
There were audible sighs of, ‘Aah, lovely…’ from some members of the audience, then the choir started to sing, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. After the opening chorus, one of the bass singers sang the verses and the audience joined in heartily with the choruses.
The sentiment of the song brought tears to a few eyes plus cheers and frenzied clapping, and this was only the start of the evening.
‘And that song, of course,’ said Mr King, when the applause had died down, ‘was written by Mr Novello in 1914, at the start of the last war. And it is just as applicable today. How happy we are that our boys have come home and that some of them are here tonight.’ He had to wait for another burst of clapping before his next announcement. ‘And now for some gentler numbers from the same great composer. Here is our very own Maisie Jackson to sing for you that lovely song from Perchance to Dream; ‘We’ll gather lilacs…’
Maisie stepped forward into the spotlight, and as she did so she felt the fluttering sensation inside her ease a little. Because there, in the second row, smiling encouragingly at her, was her mother, with her old friend Mrs Jenner, who owned the draper’s shop, sitting next to her. And Audrey and Doris were there in the wings, and the thought of them rooting for her gave her confidence. She started to sing, trying to remember all she had been taught about the correct way to breathe: deeply and from the diaphragm so that she did not lose control.
It was becoming a little easier as she went on. She was aware that her first few bars might have been a trifle wavery, but she started to gain in confidence as she heard her voice reaching the top notes quite easily without straining, soaring out into the hall over the heads of the audience. She was afraid to stare around too much at the rows of people in front of her in case she forgot her words – that would be dreadful, especially as she knew the song backwards and inside out with constant practising – but she could not resist taking a fleeting glance.
Bruce’s parents, Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, were plainly visible in the middle of the front row, just in front of her mother, as befitted their importance as the local squire and his wife. The title was largely a courtesy title afforded to Archie as the biggest landowner in the area. The Tremaines lived in the aptly named Tremaine House, and the land surrounding it included the Nixons’ farm where Doris lived with her mother and brothers. Archie and Rebecca were smiling at Maisie, but she knew it would be considered unprofessional to smile back. And so, after her eyes had lighted on them briefly she looked away again.
She could see that Bruce was not with them. She felt a tiny pang of disappointment, but then it would not be his style, she told herself, to take an important seat with his parents. He would be more likely to sit further back, perhaps with others of his own generation. That was if he knew anyone well enough. Bruce had been educated at a public school in North Yorkshire, and not at the local Grammar or Secondary school like most of his contemporaries in the town; and so had never had a chance to make close friends in his own neighbourhood; and for the last two years, of course, he had been away serving in the RAF.
The chorus about gathering lilacs in the spring was familiar now to many people, after being sung and played on the wireless countless times, following the production of the play in London’s West End earlier that year. And as she sang the familiar words Maisie caught her first glimpse of him.
He was sitting about halfway back on an end seat near to the aisle, leaning forward as though he wanted to get a better look at her. And even at that distance and in the dim light she could tell that he was smiling. His dark eyes were glowing with pleasure and delight…at being home again, no doubt, she told herself. She must not read too much into his smile, but it was so good to see it again. After letting her glance linger on him for only a few seconds she looked away again; she fixed her eyes on a point near the back of the room to enable her to focus her attention on her song.
But her thoughts still kept wandering back to Bruce. ‘And walk together down an English lane…’ The words assumed a greater significance as she recalled the first time she had met Bruce Tremaine…
She was an evacuee. It was only her second – no, her third – day in Middlebeck if she remembered rightly, and she had been exploring the countryside behind the church with Audrey. Then Doris, their new friend from the farm, had joined them, anxious to teach these city kids some of the lore of the country. And then Bruce had suddenly appeared on the scene, chasing after Prince, his boisterous collie dog, who had frightened Audrey, causing her to fall down and spill her blackberries…
Maisie realised now that she had started to fall in love with him, just a little bit, on that very first day, even though she was angry with him – or, rather, with his dog – for frightening her friend, and though she was only nine years old. He had seemed posh to Maisie, especially the way he talked. She had never met anyone like him, especially not a boy. She had not been keen on boys at all at that time, comparing every one that she met with her loathsome stepbrother, Percy. But she had soon realised that Bruce was different; he was kind and considerate and ever such good fun, and not the slightest bit snooty towards her and her friends, in spite of being a few years older and, moreover, the son of the squire.
Her song came to an end to ecstatic applause from the audience and shouts of ‘Well done, Maisie love…’ She was well known now in the little town of Middlebeck and popular with her own peer group. Feeling thankful that it was over, she gave a slight bow to acknowledge their ovation, then took her place amongst the other sopranos.
The choir then sang ‘Waltz of my Heart’ and ‘I can give you the Starlight’ from the musical The Dancing Years, with the audience, though unbidden, joining in with the more familiar words. The last song, ‘Rose of England’, was another one very appropriate to the occasion.
Muriel Hollins was the soloist this time, a majestic figure in midnight blue satin, with a white rose anchored to a spot just above her magnificent bosom, which rose and fell visibly with every breath she took. She had a rich and melodious contralto voice, which had been known to cause amusement amongst the choir boys at practices, when she insisted on demonstrating how a certain phrase should be sung. But the young boy choristers were not included in that night’s performance – Ivor Novello was not considered to be their forte – so there was no giggling. And certainly none from the members of the audience who, once again, were moved by the patriotic sentiments.
When the song had finished and they had taken a bow – well, two and three bows to be accurate – the ladies of the choir retreated to their dressing room to refresh themselves with drinks of orange squash. There were seats reserved for them in the hall so that they could watch the rest of the concert if they so wished; but Maisie chose to stay with Audrey to help her to get the children ready for their Alice in Wonderland scenes. The girls, that was, because the boys who were taking part were in the other dressing room, the male one, in the charge of a lad called Brian. He was Audrey
’s co-producer, a sixth-former at the Grammar school in Lowerbeck, which complemented the school which Maisie and Audrey attended. Maisie believed that Brian Milner rather fancied her friend, but Audrey chose not to give too much away when it came to affairs of the heart, and she did not take kindly to teasing.
‘You were brilliant, honest you were,’ Audrey told her. ‘We felt real proud of you, didn’t we, Doris? Oh…where’s she gone?’ She turned round looking for their other friend. ‘Oh, there she is at the other mirror, doing her hair ready for her poem. She’s on soon.’
Maisie glanced across at Doris. She was not within hearing distance – there was quite a racket going on anyway – so she leaned towards Audrey. ‘He’s here!’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve seen him; about halfway back, at the end of the row.’
‘Oh…! No wonder there’s such a gleam in your eye,’ replied Audrey. ‘Shall you go and say hello to him at the interval?’
‘I think I’ll wait till the end,’ said Maisie. ‘We’re only having a ten minute break, aren’t we, just to stretch our legs and so on? And I don’t want to appear too eager, you know; as though I can’t wait to see him.’
‘Which would be quite true…’ Audrey grinned slyly.
Maisie shrugged, aware that she was letting her feelings show too much, something she had been determined not to do. ‘Well…yes; it’s good to see him again,’ she said, with an air of nonchalance. Her cheeks felt hot and Audrey was looking at her knowingly.
‘Joanie…come over here, love,’ Maisie called to her sister, ‘and I’ll help you to fix your hair ribbons.’
‘Doesn’t she look just perfect in that dress?’ said Audrey, taking the hint from Maisie and changing the subject. ‘Just like the pictures of Alice in the books. Your mum’s been busy, hasn’t she, Joanie?’
Joanie nodded. ‘She’s done nothing but sew just lately, hasn’t she, Maisie? My dress, and Maisie’s an’ all.’
Joanie, as Alice in Wonderland, was wearing a mid-calf length dress of pale blue cotton, with puffed sleeves, a white collar and trimmings and a white apron tied around her waist. She had been growing her hair especially for the performance, and Maisie brushed it for her now. It was a pale golden colour, straight and shining, and fell to just below her shoulders. Her sister fastened it back with kirby grips, then secured the blue ribbon bows, one at each side of her forehead.
‘There now,’ she said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘You’ll do. In fact, you look lovely.’ They were not, as a family, much given to a lot of hugging and kissing. But Maisie, over the years, had been amazed at the transformation of her once naughty, grubby, and not very likeable little sister, into this pretty, polite, and friendly nine-year-old girl. And Jimmy was shaping up quite nicely too.
‘Aw, give over, Maisie! Don’t be soppy,’ said Joanie; but she could not disguise her pleased smile. ‘Are we on soon, Audrey?’ she asked. ‘Have I time to go to the lav?’
Audrey laughed. ‘Yes; you’d better go. We’re on after Doris’s poem, and she’s next. You four girls who are being the playing cards, you’ve all been to the toilet, have you? Because you won’t be able to sit down when you’ve got these costumes on.’
The four girls nodded in unison, then Audrey and Maisie placed the large cards – the three and four of hearts, and the three and four of spades – over their heads. The numbers of the playing cards were painted on both the front and the back, and the cards were secured at the shoulders and sides with tapes. Audrey and her friend, Brian, with Maisie sometimes assisting them, had spent many evenings at the Rectory designing them.
Maisie shrieked with laughter when Doris turned round from the mirror. ‘Goodness, Doris, what a scream you look! You’ll bring the house down before you even start to speak.’
Doris’s flaxen hair was done up in two plaits which, somehow, she had made to stick out at an angle on either side of her head. Each plait was finished off with a bright pink bow, with a third bow on top of her head. Her cheeks were normally rosy, but she had heightened their colour with dabs of rouge like a Dutch doll. Her dress was of pink and white gingham, one that she had used to wear a couple of summers ago, but she – or her mother – had altered the bodice to fit her increasing bustline, and the shortness of the skirt did not matter. Layers of stiffened petticoats underneath made it stand out, revealing her shapely, rather plumpish, legs and her feet in white ankle socks.
‘I told you they were supposed to laugh,’ said Doris. ‘Oh heck! D’you think I’ve overdone it? I feel sick. Oh… Oh dear! I can’t go on…’
But Maisie and Audrey knew that it was mostly just banter. Doris would be fine once she got onto the stage.
‘’Course you can, don’t be daft,’ said Maisie, giving her a push. ‘Luke’s announcing you now. Go on; get a move on.’
Doris grimaced as she went through the door. ‘I still don’t know what she’s going to recite,’ said Maisie. ‘Come on, Audrey; let’s go to the front and listen, shall we?’
‘No; I’d better stay here and keep an eye on the children,’ said Audrey. ‘I can hear well enough from the side of the stage. You go…’
Maisie tiptoed out and stood by the side wall, not allowing her eyes to stray further back down the hall, but fixing them on the stage. The laughter and applause greeting Doris’s appearance was beginning to die down, and she grinned at them, all trace of nervousness, if there had ever been any, completely gone.
‘Matilda,’ she announced in a confident voice, ‘by Hilaire Belloc.’ And then, ghoulishly and leaning confidingly towards her audience, ‘Matilda, who told lies and was burned to death!’ She paused for effect, and some members of the audience responded with a reciprocal, ‘Aahh…’, knowing, from the girl’s appearance that this would be a poem to evoke laughter and not a feeling of horror.
Doris was a born actress, thought Maisie, as she watched her friend’s expressive face and meaningful gestures, but no one seemed to have realised it before. There had not been much opportunity for concerts and play-acting during the war years, such performances as there were having been held during daylight hours because of the blackout regulations.
As Doris finished the poem Maisie clapped till her hands were stinging and she gave a cheer, along with several others, as her friend bowed and grinned then left the stage.
It was time then for the last act before the interval, the scenes from Alice in Wonderland. Maisie stayed where she was. Joanie would not want her fussing over her again. She was still forcing her eyes to look straight in front and not allowing herself to turn round, but once the Mad Hatter’s tea party commenced she was thoroughly engrossed. Joanie was an enchanting Alice and word perfect too, and the boys who played the Mad Hatter, the March Hare and the Dormouse made the audience laugh, though not always in the right places. The Hatter’s top hat was a shade too large and kept falling over his eyes, and the Dormouse, a tiny little lad, kept waving to his mother in the third row.
In the next scene Maisie was relieved to see that Jimmy behaved himself very well. He was one of the playing-card gardeners, the two of spades, engaged in the task of painting the white roses red. Fortunately, he was concentrating on doing just that and not splashing the paint all over himself and his mates which, at one time, would have been a pleasant diversion for him. The card worn by the Queen of Hearts – a twelve-year-old girl who shouted, ‘Off with their heads!’ in a very imperious voice – had been drawn and painted expertly by Audrey. The whole performance, indeed, was a great credit to her and Brian and there were cries at the end for the producers to come onto the stage and take a bow.
Brian emerged from one dressing room and Audrey, rather more unwillingly, from the other. As they stood in the centre of the stage, smiling and bowing a little to acknowledge the applause, Brian took hold of her hand. Maisie saw the blush which crept over her friend’s cheeks, but she also noticed that her blue eyes were extra bright and sparkly as she turned to smile shyly at Brian and then at her mother and father, both standing pro
udly at the side of the piano.
‘Well done, everyone,’ said Luke. ‘Very well done indeed. And now we will have just a short ten-minute interval before we start the second half of our programme.’
When Audrey came down from the stage she was surrounded by folk who wanted to congratulate her on the children’s performances. Maisie could see that her friend was quite pink-cheeked with pleasure. This was her moment of glory and well deserved, too. Maisie added her own praise as well.
‘That was great, Audrey. I’m really proud of you. I’m amazed at the way you’ve got our Joanie to do her part; she was terrific.’
‘Yes, she was,’ agreed Audrey. ‘But I told you, she’s a natural. It had very little to do with me; she just seemed to know what to do.’
‘And all the others played their parts so well; it was obvious they were enjoying it.’
‘Well, that’s the most important thing at their age, isn’t it?’ Audrey laughed. ‘As for me, I shall enjoy the rest of the concert much more now that that’s over. Anyway, I’d better go and help the girls to get out of their costumes.’
‘No… I’ll do that,’ said Maisie quickly. ‘You stay and talk to these ladies.’ A few of Luke’s more elderly parishioners were smiling fondly at Audrey. She was very popular with them and had a pleasant manner which enabled her to associate with both the young and the old in her father’s congregation. Already she was becoming quite an asset to him.
‘Are you sure?’ said Audrey. It was clear that she was enjoying her triumph, in her own quiet way.
‘Of course I am,’ said Maisie. She grinned. ‘Off you go and chat to the old ladies,’ she added in a lower voice. ‘They’ll love it.’
Maisie was feeling, suddenly, rather nervous and shy at the thought of encountering Bruce again. Besides, she was all dolled up in her finery ready for the next appearance of the choir near the end of the programme. It would be better to wait until the end. Without a backward glance she went back into the dressing room to help the playing card girls with their costumes, and the Queen of Hearts, too, with her more elaborate regalia and cardboard crown. Joanie, though, wanted to stay in her Alice dress, minus the apron, and there was no reason why she should not do so. The children all hurried out to the seats reserved for them to watch the rest of the concert, and Maisie busied herself tidying up the costumes and props that had been used for the Alice scenes.
Down an English Lane Page 3