The Swish of the Curtain (Blue Door Book 1)

by Pamela Brown

  “One day,” Lyn told herself, “it’s going to be me acting Juliet on that stage.”

  The tragedy drew to an end all too soon, and the nerve-racking suicide scene in the vault was enacted. Felicity, in her shimmering white wedding dress, surpassed herself; as she fell dead across Romeo there were audible sobs from many parts of the theatre. Lyn could hear Sandra sniffing; she herself was not at all near to tears, but merely worked up. She sat straight in her seat, every nerve tingling to catch the emotion of the scene. The eventual discovery of the bodies seemed feeble and superfluous, and her eyes were glued on the motionless corpses, who in their very immobility still retained the characters of their parts. The players, after taking their bows, stood to attention for “God save the King”, then, regretfully, as if it knew the play were ended, the curtain fell.

  “What a marvellous swish,” remarked Maddy. “Think of the rattle-scrape of our curtains!”

  “I’m going to invent something for those curtains,” vowed Bulldog as they descended the stairs.

  They discussed the play from every angle, and there was a heated argument between Nigel and Lyn as to whether or not Juliet were too happy in the balcony scene.

  “Don’t you see how it spoilt the tragedy of the play?” asked Nigel, getting exasperated. “Why, the girl was almost flippant at times.”

  “So she ought to be,” argued Lyn. “My goodness, a girl who is not flippant when flirting with an admirer on a hot summer evening isn’t human.”

  “But think of the danger he was in. He was an enemy of her family, and you know what a brute old man Capulet was. Don’t you think she’d be more urgent and nervous?”

  “No, I don’t. She was only fourteen, and it was the first time she had been in love.”

  “All the more reason for her to be a bit afraid.”

  “I think Juliet was perfect,” said Lyn stubbornly, “and you know I’m hard to please.”

  Here the bishop interposed, more sternly than they had ever heard him speak before. “As neither of you knows anything about love, or how Shakespeare meant his plays to be acted, don’t you consider this argument rather futile?”

  “Sorry, Bishop,” smiled Lyn. “We didn’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s been the most perfect day of my life.”

  They collected their cases from the “Swan” and went to catch the train.

  “We have only to change twice this time,” the bishop told them, “so I advise you to try to get some sleep.”

  For the first part of the journey they talked Shakespeare, but when they were settled on the train that would take them to Fenchester, conversation ceased. Lyn, her cheek bumping against the cool window pane, looked out into the starry night, and phrases from the plays ran through her mind in rhythm with the wheels. Maddy was smiling in her sleep, living through the scenes with Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. Sandra, putting her arm round her small sister, thought sleepily, “I could go on dozing in this train, wedged between Maddy and Vicky, for ever and ever.”

  Nigel, with his head sunk on his chest, was building colossal stage sets of white marble, that stretched round him for miles, and finally enveloped him. Vicky was trying to read a paper-backed novel, but the print was dancing a tarantella in front of her aching eyes, and she was not awake to notice when the book rustled to the ground. Jeremy was asleep, dreaming music as always, but the tunes so vivid in sleep were elusive in the light of day.

  The bishop snored, slightly out of time with the throb of the engine, but happily and steadily, while Bulldog was mentally making the engine miss half a beat and coincide with the bishop. The bishop sneezed, and when he resumed his snores – joy of joys – they were in perfect unison with the other predominant vibration. Bulldog sighed and slept, while the carriage of slumber sped over the green fields of England.

  12

  STORMS AND SHAKESPEARE

  After the Festival expedition there were very few excitements during the term that the Blue Door Theatre Company could enjoy all together, but they each had their own pursuits. Vicky was in the display given by the school of dancing which she attended. It was at St. George’s Hall, the biggest assembly room in the town, and there were three performances, one on the Friday evening, a matinee on Saturday, and a final evening performance.

  The Blue Doors turned up at all three and clapped Vicky’s solo with great enthusiasm. It came in a number called “Dancing through the Ages”, and she represented the travelling tumbler of the pre-Louis Quinze days. She wore a pied costume of yellow and green, consisting of a hooded tunic, tights, and odd stockings to do a clever acrobatic dance. She also appeared in several of the corps de ballet and the tap chorus, and had a pas de deux with another girl in a ballet called “Le petit chaperon rouge”. On the last night she had two bouquets, one from the Blue Doors and one from the Bells. The dancing-mistress was pleased to see such a new pupil excel herself, and offered her a free extra lesson each week, on the condition that she worked for some exams. Vicky accepted with alacrity, and her mother was overjoyed, though Mr. Halford was dubious.

  “You know she’ll be wanting to take up dancing as a career if she studies it too hard,” he warned her.

  “And why shouldn’t she? You didn’t have such an aversion to dancers when you met me, now did you?”

  Mr. Halford frowned and hunted for words, but his wife went on:

  “People are so silly. When they meet me they are interested to hear I’ve been a dancer, but they’d be shocked if we let Vicky take it up. Why it’s a sin to be a dancer, yet permissible to have been one I really can’t tell.”

  Vicky, however, was not worrying about her career, and when she heard the others, especially Lyn and Jeremy, ranting because their parents would not take them seriously, she could not think why they bothered themselves so much with the future. Her motto was, “Sufficient unto the day”, and she plodded on at school, neither working too hard nor slacking, shining only in the gym and tennis courts. She passed several elementary dancing exams in a few months, and then settled down to work for a stiff one. Nigel led a hard life during this summer term. He was taking School Certificate in July, and all through the term he worked every minute of the day, and when he went to bed he dreamed maps of Europe and dates of Factory Acts. His art suffered a great deal, as this subject was not included in the matriculation subjects.

  One day his father remarked to him: “I’m glad to see you’ve given up that ridiculous art business, my boy.”

  Nigel was astounded. “But, father, what makes you say that?”

  “Well, you have given up hope of ever doing anything in that line, haven’t you?”

  “No, I have not!” Nigel almost shouted, “and I never shall, however hard you try to make me be a stuffy old barrister!”

  “Nigel!” pleaded his mother, “that’s not the way to speak to your father.”

  “Sorry,” growled Nigel. “I’m tired.”

  When he had gone to bed Mrs. Halford said, “You must admit he’s been working hard for his exam.”

  “If he hopes that by putting up a good show in the exam it will make me less set on his taking up law, he’s greatly mistaken.”

  “It would be different if he had some mad idea of an attic in Chelsea,” argued his wife, “but he’s got his wits about him. He can see that there is money to be made in commercial art, and that’s what his flair is for, that and for stage scenery too.”

  “But it’s such a precarious living,” began Mr. Halford, then stopped, surprised at the fixed gaze his wife had turned upon him. “What’s the matter?” he asked nervously.

  “How funny!” she murmured. “And when I married you, you told me that we should live precariously at first, till you got a rise, and I said that half the fun in life came from things being unsafe, and you agreed.”

  “I was young and stupid then.” Mr. Halford brushed away the argument.

  “Isn’t Nigel allowed to be young and stupid and enjoy himself?”

  They were both getting heated, when Mrs
. Halford laughing said, “What a good job Bulldog doesn’t want to be a musician!”

  Bulldog was spending all his spare time at the Blue Door Theatre, staring at the curtains in deep thought, but the inspiration for making them “swish” would not come. Then he spent his evenings at the public library, poring over books on stage production and effects, but still could not find what he wanted. One day the librarian, who was sitting at his desk in the non-fiction room, received a shock. A small boy, freckled and ginger, had been sitting on top of a step-ladder, deep in thought, with his mouth open and eyes staring, when suddenly he shouted, “Boy, oh boy! I got it, I got it, I got it!” leaped off the steps, and disappeared. For the next few days all the hammers, nails, and saws had disappeared from the Corner House, and finally Bulldog confronted Nigel, who was learning irregular French verbs, and said dolefully, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “Oh?” replied Nigel uninterestedly.

  “I’ve pulled down the curtains at the theatre.”

  “Put them up again, then,” growled Nigel.

  “I was only trying an idea that didn’t work, but it’s given me an idea for another, only I shall have to spend a lot of time and ingenuity on it.”

  “Well, don’t waste much of it on me,” growled Nigel. “Good-bye!”

  Jeremy, despite his vow to work, found himself slacking again. Dreaming and reading and making up violin music were his life, only interrupted by the invention of excuses for undone homework. He passed another music exam with distinction, and came bottom of his form every week.

  “You really must speak to Jeremy,” Mrs. Darwin urged her husband. “He’s come twentieth again.”

  “That’s not too bad,” replied her husband easily.

  “There are twenty boys in the form,” she told him bitterly.

  “Dear me! That is bad, then. Perhaps I ought to reprove him, but what shall I say?”

  “Tell him that the harder he works this year, the easier it will be next year.”

  “Perhaps he prefers to get all his swotting over next year.”

  “I think that he’s hoping that if he works badly enough we shall let him take up music.”

  Mr. Darwin went on with his tea in silence.

  “And that can’t be allowed, can it?” urged his wife.

  “What’s that? Oh, no, no, of course not. When I’ve got a nice little berth for him in the office, it’s sheer madness.”

  Mrs. Darwin sighed. “And Lyn is such a nuisance. All this term she’s been learning speeches from plays. She knows Juliet and St. Joan, and Portia, and I don’t know what else! All she can do well in at school is Oral English. I don’t know what she thinks she’ll do when she leaves school.”

  “Perhaps she’ll be a librarian or an English teacher.” This was spoken without conviction.

  “Perhaps not!” snapped Mrs. Darwin. “I can see trouble ahead, I’m afraid. And all the people that take an interest in her, the Bells and the bishop, they all encourage her in her acting nonsense.”

  Up in her bedroom Lyn was being Portia in front of the mirror. She had evolved a new method of acting. After memorizing her words, which never took her long, she would imagine the scene as Felicity Warren would have played it, and then act Felicity acting the part. This was always more successful than acting Lynette acting the part. Sometimes she would have fits of despair and fling the book away from her, realizing how bad she was, and how little chance she had of ever being able to improve.

  Sandra lived quietly, sewing and cooking and practicing her singing in her spare time, and cultivating her friendship with Vicky, whom she found less moody and quick-tempered than Lyn. They sometimes went up into the fields; there Sandra sewed, while Vicky read aloud from books of plays. Sandra had undertaken the renovation of the theatre wardrobe, and was always to be found sewing on buttons and strings.

  The summer drew on. Nigel sat for his exam and felt a free man again. Then one hot Sunday morning, as they sat in church with their respective families, Mr. Bell announced, “There is going to be a garden fête held in the vicarage grounds in aid of the South England Bible Campaign. Will all those interested attend a meeting in the parish hall at seven o’clock tomorrow.” After the service Mr. Bell spoke to Nigel. “Will you all come along tomorrow night? I think we shall need your assistance.”

  On Monday evening the parish hall was crowded with benevolently minded citizens of Fenchester. The children felt lost, as refreshments and decorations were discussed in detail, but when Mr. Bell, who was chairman, said “And now, regarding entertainment,” they pricked up their ears.

  Mrs. Potter-Smith stood up and gushed, “Oh, dear Vicar, my Ladies’ Institute would love to do a little play for you. And in your too sweet garden a fairy fantasy would be just perfect.”

  Lyn gripped Sandra’s arm in agony, waiting for the vicar’s reply.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Potter-Smith, but I really think your Ladies’ Institute will be invaluable in the refreshment line,” he told her diplomatically. “You are so dependable and capable, and I’m sure that with you at their head the ladies will be quite able to cope with it.”

  Mrs. Potter-Smith bridled with delight.

  “All those in favour of this arrangement please signify,” requested Mr. Bell. Bulldog was rude enough to raise both his hands. “That is settled. Now I propose we leave the entertainment in the hands of people who could do nothing else.”

  “That’s us,” whispered Vicky. “See me slinging trays and tea-cups around.”

  One of the Primary Sunday School teachers stood up. “I propose the Blue Door Theatre Company to be asked to provide entertainment.”

  “Seconded!” said several other voices.

  “Very well.” Mr. Bell turned to the children. “Nigel, will that suit you all?”

  Nigel stood up. “Yes, sir. It will be a pleasure.”

  Lyn’s heart thumped at the thought of more acting, after a whole term’s cessation. Mrs. Potter-Smith stood up.

  “I propose,” she said, “that they do something with fairies in. People do love that sort of thing.”

  Jeremy ground his teeth and looked imploringly at Nigel.

  “Say something, Nigel!” hissed Lyn. “Stand up and say something!”

  To the surprise and horror of the Blue Doors, Nigel stood up and agreed complacently that they would do something with fairies in. Bulldog pinched him violently, and when he sat down said in a hurt voice, “Nigel! Imagine me wearing tinsel and tulle and flitting round the vicarage garden!”

  “It’s O.K.,” Nigel calmed him. “Trust your Uncle Nigel. I’ll tell you afterwards.” When they got outside he said, “Don’t you think we could do one of the fairy scenes from Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  No one was enthusiastic.

  “I was Puck once,” Lyn told him, “and I’m sick of the part, so don’t make me take it.”

  “Vicky could be Puck,” Sandra suggested. “Then she could do an acrobatic dance.”

  “Why shouldn’t we do several little Shakespeare extracts?” suggested Lyn, “because we’ve not got time to make anything up for ourselves.”

  “Lyn wants to play Juliet,” Bulldog announced shrewdly.

  She coloured up and acknowledged that she did.

  “I don’t see why she shouldn’t be Juliet. We could have just the balcony scene. But what about Romeo?”

  “Bags not me!” put in Bulldog hurriedly.

  “You’d make a better Mickey Mouse,” Lyn told him cuttingly.

  “Either Nigel or Jeremy must play it,” pointed out Vicky.

  “I don’t want to,” Jeremy told them. “I’m tired of making love to Lyn, her kisses are so revoltingly wet.”

  “All right. There is no embrace in the balcony scene. Actually I prefer Nigel. He’s got better legs than Jeremy.”

  “As you told me at Stratford-on-Avon, this isn’t going to be a musical comedy,” said Nigel.

  “No, but you’ve got to wear doublet and hose.
”

  “I’ll put up with anything but a moustache or a beard.”

  “You must wear false eyebrows for Romeo,” Maddy told him.

  “Is there much to learn?” Nigel asked of Lyn, for he was not a quick learner.

  “Not so much as Juliet has.”

  “Who’s going to be what in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Vicky wanted to know.

  “Sandra must be Titania, obviously.”

  “Jeremy must be Oberon, then,” said Lyn.

  “What about me? An odd fairy, I suppose?” asked Maddy.

  “Right first time. You can have your hair loose and be the fairy that has the conversation with Puck. You know, ‘Over hill, over dale’.”

  “Do I have to dance?” asked Maddy anxiously.

  “We’ll decide that later. And anyhow you’re thinner since you were last extracted from between the boards of the stage, so you ought to be able to dance,” Jeremy told her.

  “Whatever shall I be?” wailed Bulldog. “They’ll all laugh if I’m anything ‘fantastic’, as Mrs. Potter-Smith calls it.”

  “You’ll be fantastic whatever you are,” Lyn told him.

  “I refuse to be a fairy or wear hose unless I can be funny. I couldn’t be a funny fairy, I suppose?” he asked wistfully.

  “No, you can’t. It would spoil it,” said Lyn decidedly. “I should think Sir Toby Belch would be more in your line.”

  “Toby Belch! Of course,” cried Bulldog eagerly. “I won’t be anything else but Toby, and Maddy can be Maria.” His face clouded. “What about Sir Andrew?”

  Lyn giggled. “Jeremy’s legs would do well, but I don’t know whether he’d be funny enough.”

  “I’d rather be Sir Andrew than Oberon,” said Jeremy.

  “You’ll have to be both.”