The Swish of the Curtain (Blue Door Book 1)

by Pamela Brown

  The Swish of the Curtain

  Pamela Brown

  About the author

  Pamela Brown was born in 1924 and wrote The Swish of the Curtain when she was 14. She sent the manuscript to the book’s first publishers, Thomas Nelson, in the early days of the Second World War. Nelson’s offices were bombed in the Blitz, but the manuscript was saved, although the publishers had no contact details for the author. She wrote to them a year later and received a reply saying that they would publish the book, which they did in 1941. Pamela Brown trained at RADA,

  and worked as a professional actress. She subsequently worked as a radio and television producer, but continued to write for children, publishing books until the 1980s. The Swish of the Curtain has been adapted for both radio and television. Pamela Brown died in 1989.

  Notes about the setting

  The Swish of the Curtain was first published in the 1940s,

  and the following references may require some additional explanation for the modern reader.

  Before decimalisation in 1969, British currency consisted of pounds, shillings and pence:

  12 pence = 1 shilling

  20 shillings = 1 pound

  21 shillings = 1 guinea

  so three and six means “three shillings and sixpence”.

  The School Certificate and Higher School Certificate were school exams taken at ages 16 and 18. They were replaced in 1951

  by O-levels and A-levels. O-levels were replaced by GCSEs

  in 1988.

  The L.R.A.M. (Licentiate of the Royal Academy of Music) is a practical music teaching diploma that still exists today.

  Prep. means “homework”, and an order mark is a formal record of bad behaviour at school.

  1

  TWO RED HEADS AND A BLACK ONE

  “They’ve come!” shrieked Lynette, as she ran down the sunlit garden to where Sandra Fayne lay sewing in the hammock. Sandra dropped her work and swung her legs to the ground, her face flushing excitedly.

  “Oh goody! We must go and see them. Hi – Madelaine!” she yelled to her nine-year-old sister, who was vainly trying to teach Pojo, the puppy, to polka. Pojo was wearing a flowered sunbonnet of Sandra’s making, and now she had only the crinoline to finish before his costume was complete.

  “Whatyouwant?” asked Madelaine, capering wildly down the path.

  “The people have come to the Corner House.”

  “What are they like, Lyn? Any children? How many? Girls or boys?”

  “Well,” said Lynette breathlessly, “I was coming up the road and I saw a car stop at the door and a man got out, and as I went past I looked in the back window of the car and I saw two red heads and a black one, and two of them were boys!”

  “I’ll go and get Jeremy,” said Madelaine, as she squeezed through the gap in the fence into the garden of the next-door house, where Lynette and her brother Jeremy lived.

  “Come quick! Something ’citing’s happened.”

  Jeremy just deigned to lift his fair head from the grass to ask lazily, “What?”

  “Two red heads and a black one!”

  “What the – ”

  “They’ve come to the Corner House.”

  “Who have?”

  “People.”

  “Well, what about it?” Jeremy wanted to know.

  “You great lump!” said Maddy, jumping heavily on to him.

  “You can’t talk about being a lump,” he gasped.

  “Well, you are. You lie there all day long reading your stupid ol’ books and don’t care if anything ’citing happens.”

  “Hurry up, Jeremy,” Lynette shouted from the other side of the fence.

  “Where am I supposed to be going? Do explain,” he pleaded, as Maddy crammed him through the hole in the fence.

  “The people have come to the empty house at last,” said Lynette slowly and deliberately. “Has that sunk in?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jeremy admitted.

  “Come on, then.”

  “Are we going to call on them?” asked Jeremy, as they passed through the front gate with Pojo frisking at their heels.

  “Ooh, I hope not,” said Maddy. “My shorts are torn just in the wrong place, and the ribbon has come off one of my plaits.”

  “Your whats?” teased Jeremy, pulling her flaxen stumps.

  “The car’s gone,” Sandra remarked.

  “Sh,” warned Lyn, as they neared the gate of the house. “I think there’s someone in the garden.”

  There was someone in the garden. A girl of about Lyn’s age was standing on her hands on the front lawn. As they were walking slowly by she went over and stood up in one neat movement and cried to a boy who was bending over a flowerbed, “This grass is beautifully soft for acrobatics.”

  The boy stood up. He was freckled and smiling, and his hair was as red and curly as his sister’s. At that moment a tall, dark boy came from behind the house, exclaiming as he came, “It’s a super garage!”

  They were past the house now, and they stopped and looked at each other questioningly and then burbled:

  “Fancy her being able to do that!”

  “He’s keen on gardening.”

  “Gee, what hair!”

  “I wonder how old the dark one is?”

  “Shall we go past again?” suggested Maddy. “I want to see if she does any more acrobatics.”

  “We’d better not; it’s rude,” said Sandra.

  “Let’s,” said Lyn. “I don’t suppose they noticed us.”

  So back they went, but were just in time to hear the front door bang. They stood in a disappointed group, looking up at the tall red brick house, but there were no more signs of life.

  “S’pose we’d better go home,” said Maddy sadly.

  “Yes.”

  They walked slowly back in silent meditation, while each came to the conclusion that they must get to know their new neighbours.

  At Sandra’s gate Mrs. Fayne was bidding goodbye to a voluminous visitor in a fur coat.

  “Ow,” groaned Maddy, “it’s Mrs. Smither-Pot.”

  “Who?” said Jeremy.

  “She means Mrs. Potter-Smith,” explained Sandra. “She’s that beastly old woman who runs the Ladies’ Institute.”

  “Oh, I know her; that frightful woman who pats me on the head and calls me ‘dear laddy,’” said Jeremy disgustedly.

  Mrs. Potter-Smith greeted them gushingly, kissing the three girls and patting Pojo and Jeremy on the head and saying, “Dear laddy” to Pojo, and “Sweet doggums” to Jeremy.

  Mrs. Fayne said, “Mrs. Potter-Smith has very kindly invited us to a concert tomorrow given by the Ladies’ Institute. You’d like to go, wouldn’t you?”

  Before the others had time to answer, Sandra replied dutifully, “Yes, Mummy, we’d love to. Thank you so much, Mrs. Potter-Smith. What is it in aid of?”

  “It is in aid of the Ladies’ Institute summer outing. I hope to take them to Eastbourne this year. Well, I really must be going. I’m such a busy little person, you know, and I’ve another house to visit in this road.” And she bustled off, leaving behind her a strong aroma of Californian Poppy.

  “That woman!” said Jeremy, as they walked up the garden path, “she’ll be the death of me.”

  “’Dear laddy, sweet little doggums,’” chanted Maddy, hopping round him gleefully. “She’s just like a giant panda. Jerry, if a baby giant panda were very large would he be a giant baby giant panda? And if he shrank in the wash would he be a baby giant baby giant panda?”

  Jeremy quelled her with a look.

  The next day was hotter than ever, and as they panted down the High Street in their best clothes they cur
sed Mrs. Potter-Smith and her Ladies’ Institute.

  “I might have been lying in the garden reading,” Jeremy grumbled, running a finger round the inside of his collar to ease the unfamiliar pressure.

  “There ought to be a law forbidding Ladies’ Institutes to give concerts in the Easter holidays,” said Lynette.

  “I meant to put my bathing costume on and clean out the goldfish pond, and here I am walking down High Street in squeaky patent shoes and a tickly straw hat,” Maddy groused.

  “It may at least prove amusing,” Sandra tried to cheer them up.

  “It’ll be very amusing if someone tries to play the violin,” Jeremy remarked.

  “I suppose you think they ought to come to our house for a lesson from you,” said Lynette bitterly.

  “You be quiet,” Maddy joined in; “he can play Beethoven’s silly symphonies like billy-o.” This produced reluctant smiles that turned to giggles and cleared the atmosphere.

  When they reached the Ladies’ Institute hall Sandra pulled up Maddy’s socks, Lyn straightened Jeremy’s tie, and they entered the hall looking uncomfortably respectable.

  After they had seated themselves on creaky cane chairs, Maddy produced from her knicker pocket a sticky packet of large pear drops, and proceeded to attack them. Suddenly she pointed excitedly to the entrance. “’Ook!” she said, vainly trying to suppress a dribble. The rest turned their heads and met the eyes of the three children from the Corner House.

  “That must have been where Mrs. Potter-Smith was going yesterday afternoon,” whispered Lyn, as the three seated themselves in the row in front.

  “Shall I offer them a pear drop?”

  “Shut up!” hissed Sandra, as the curtain rose in a series of violent jerks, showing the stage empty but for Mrs. Potter-Smith’s rear view as she bent over arranging some ferns that served as a background. When she realized she was in full view of the audience she gave a frightened squeal and scuttled agitatedly out of sight. The audience, all but Maddy, were polite, and pretended not to have seen her.

  The first item was a selection of songs by a Miss Thropple. She was a tall, thin spinster dressed in a violent purple frock with crimson carnations in her black, wispy hair. Maddy remarked that she gargled rather than sang, and they all agreed. Vigorously she warbled “Cherry Ripe.”

  “Fule end feah ones,

  Calm end bai.”

  The girl with the more auburn of the two red heads turned and gave a delighted snigger. They all returned the smile except Sandra, who, having a good voice herself, was in agony; and when, next, a bespectacled pimply faced boy tried to play a violin, Jeremy felt equally bad. A sugary voice from behind them remarked at the end of the recital, “That’s Mrs. Pimmington’s dear boy. They’re going to have him trained.” Maddy squeezed Jeremy’s arm sympathetically, for she knew it was hard for him to hear that this poor specimen would have the opportunity that he longed for in vain. Jeremy had got to go into his father’s office.

  They looked on their programmes and found the next item was a play called “Overheard in Spring,” Written by Mrs. Potter-Smith.

  “This sounds good,” remarked Lyn, as the curtain rose to show what was meant to be a woodland glade. They saw the dark boy in front nudge the girl, and heard him say, “Just look at the perspective of that tree!”

  At this moment some ladies of varying ages and sizes lumped on to the creaking stage, dressed in floral creations and sang:

  “We are the flowers of Spring, tra la.”

  An answering thud was heard offstage, and Mrs. Potter-Smith puffed on, wearing a Greek tunic, with primroses in her hair, which she had “let down” for the occasion. She flung out her plump arms towards the audience, declaiming, “I am the Spirit of Spring!”

  The ginger girl stuffed her hankie into her mouth, and Maddy whispered confidentially to Sandra, “Are we supposed to laugh?”

  “No,” replied Sandra, valiantly trying to suppress her own laughter.

  The “fantasy”, as it was called on the programme, wore on to its dramatic finale, when the flowers of spring, the birds of spring, the trees of spring, and the clouds of spring all having performed, Mrs. Potter-Smith did a series of leg wavings, which the audience rightly took to be a dance. At the fall of the curtain the dark boy turned round to Sandra and remarked, “Isn’t this just too priceless for words?”. Sandra agreed, and was racking her brain for a nice conversational remark when the Spirit of Spring appeared in front of the curtains. Her hair was mingled with her fur coat, which she had donned over the Greek tunic. Her feet were still bare.

  “This afternoon, dear audience,” she purred, “we have a thrilling guest artist, Mr. Augustus Wheeley.” The audience nodded politely, as if Augustus Wheeley were a character of worldwide fame. Mrs. Potter-Smith beamed sweetly on the audience and departed. The curtain rose. A minute little man dressed in black with pince-nez greeted them with a squeak, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “He speaks as if he’s cleaning his teeth,” said Maddy. This remark created so much mirth in her own party that she repeated it to the three in front.

  “This afternoon,” continued the little man, “I am going to sing a selection of Paul Robeson’s songs.”

  Both parties went into such convulsions that for decency’s sake they made a hasty exit. Outside the storm burst, and leaning against the wall they writhed in an agony of giggles.

  When at last they had subsided into a weak and bleary-eyed condition the ginger-haired girl said, “You’re the people from next door, aren’t you? We saw you in the garden this morning.”

  “Oh, we saw you just after you arrived yesterday,” chimed in Maddy. “You were standing on your hands on the lawn.”

  “I hope the view didn’t offend you,” remarked the eldest boy.

  They all laughed, and Sandra said, “Hadn’t we better introduce ourselves?”

  “Well, to begin with, I’m Vicky,” said the ginger-haired girl.

  Her red-haired brother broke in, “Victoria Jane Halford, she means.”

  “And this is my twin,” went on Vicky, “Percy Turnbull Halford, commonly known as Bulldog.” Percy Turnbull grinned amicably. “And this,” continued Vicky, “is our elderly and revered brother, Nigel Murray Halford.”

  Nigel bowed politely. “At your service.”

  “What lovely names,” exclaimed Maddy. “I’m just Madelaine Fayne.”

  “I’m Sandra, her sister.”

  Sandra shook hands with the three, while they eyed her up and down, Vicky envying her fair hair and unfreckled skin. Lynette, who was next introduced, was Sandra’s exact opposite, for her dark hair was straight and smooth and she had solemn brown eyes. Jeremy, the last to be introduced, blushed nervously as he shook hands, saying, “I’m Jeremy Darwin.”

  This started a regular frenzy of hand shaking, and they went on until Lyn found herself shaking Nigel’s hand for the third time.

  “Oh, let’s stop this,” she laughed; “my hand’s aching.”

  As they crossed the road they began to compare ages, finding that Nigel, being fifteen, was the eldest; Jeremy and Sandra were a year his junior, Lynette and the twins thirteen, and Maddy, who was nearly nine, the baby. They also learnt that Vicky was to go to the local Girls’ High School that Sandra, Lyn and Maddy attended; she was already wearing her school blazer with F. G. H. S. on the pocket, which stood for Fenchester Girls’ High School. Nigel and Bulldog were to start the summer term at the Grammar School to which Jeremy went.

  “That’s fine,” said Nigel; “we shall be able to see a lot of each other.”

  “Yes, we must,” they agreed.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” enquired Lyn.

  “Nothing, I don’t think,” said Bulldog ungrammatically.

  “Father will probably want me to help get things in order, but I can skip that,” said Vicky confidently.

  “You see,” explained Nigel, “Mother can’t do anything; she has to rest all day.”

  �
�We’ve got two maids, which is quite enough,” Vicky went on; “but father has old-fashioned ideas about a woman’s place being in the home.”

  “I know,” Sandra suggested; “we’ll cycle to Browcliffe. It’s a lovely little bay, and it’s only ten miles from here, so we can get there easily in an hour.”

  The rest of the way home they dwelt entirely upon plans for the next day, pleased to find that each of their new friends had a bicycle.

  When they had left the three at the Corner House gate, Lynette said, “What do you think of them?”

  “They’re lovely,” Sandra said.

  As they walked up the garden path Vicky asked, “What do you think of them?”

  “Super,” replied her brothers.

  2

  CASTLES IN THE AIR

  In a long line they streamed out on to the main Browcliffe road with a tinkling of bells. Nigel led on his long, low racer. Behind him came Lynette, on a shining Raleigh sports model, a present on her last birthday. Bulldog came next, riding his startling scarlet machine, which he had painted himself. A black flag attached to the front mudguard bore the design of a skull and crossbones. Jeremy followed on his bike. There is no adjective to describe it; it was just a bike. Sandra rode behind him, her fair hair flying out; her bicycle was very sedate, with no trace of curved handlebars or streamline about it. Vicky, who was next, came with a rattle-crash-bang on an ancient 1925 model that made Sandra’s look quite daring. Maddy brought up the rear, pink in the face with the exertion of pedalling twice as fast as the others on her tiny bike, which she had long outgrown.

  Bulldog began to whistle “The Lambeth Walk” piercingly, and that set them all singing the chorus with great gusto but little harmony. Maddy nearly fell off in her attempt to jerk her thumb over her shoulder when they came to the “Oi!”

  As they sped down Campbell Hill they caught the first glimpse of the sea as it lay sparkling and blue in the sunlit bay.