by Pamela Brown
“Goodness! Two parts to learn! And in this hot weather. I’ll be a nervous wreck.”
“Lazy hound!” Lyn reproved him. “The play’s the thing.”
“Do you think Mrs. Potter-Smith will think it quite the thing if we do the revel scene from Twelfth Night?” asked Sandra anxiously.
“Mrs. Potter-Smith and all her snarky satellites can go to – wherever they please. We can cut out all unsuitable bits.”
So it was arranged, and when they started rehearsing at the theatre next evening they were all armed with immense copies of Shakespeare.
“Mine has an appendix,” announced Maddy proudly.
“Mine’s got notes on acting,” Bulldog told her.
“Mine’s lost the page with the balcony scene on it, confound it!” grumbled Lyn. “I think it’s a bad idea, lugging these great volumes around.”
The books proved a nuisance as they read through their parts. Maddy dropped hers on Bulldog’s toe several times, the last of which was so obviously on purpose that a fight ensued. The next evening they sat round the dressing-room table and copied out their parts into exercise books.
“… maiden blush bepaint my cheek,” muttered Lyn as she wrote.
“… speak again, bright angel,” said Nigel, a bit louder.
“… laughing at their harm,” shouted Maddy.
“… he’s a great quarreller,” screeched Bulldog, and Lyn and Nigel had to get quite tough in order to quell the pandemonium.
The next week they broke up and could indulge in extensive rehearsals. Lyn was in her seventh heaven, and, as she had previously learnt her part, she had time in which to study it thoroughly. When they made descents on the public library she always went to the literature department, where there were many books on Shakespeare’s heroines. Nigel and Bulldog were anxious about the balcony, which would be very difficult to erect in the vicarage garden. Luckily the other scenes were easily staged. For the fairy scene no properties were needed, and only a table and chair for the revel scene from Twelfth Night. They resorted to the hobbies section and read books on carpentry. Vicky and Jeremy did no studying of their parts to speak of, but practised the acrobatic dance for which Jeremy was playing the violin. For the first time in her life Maddy deigned to take advice from Lyn regarding her part. She hated being a fairy, but took Maria very seriously, and Lyn went over it with her till she had every inflection and gesture suited to the perky little servant girl.
Nigel was proving a poor Romeo. He could not remember his lines, and put Lyn in a muddle, and they would find themselves repeating speeches, and going round in a circle. Lyn had a dreadful dream that it actually happened on the night, and they kept going on and on. Whenever they had nearly reached the end, one of them started a speech near the beginning. As Nigel was used to heavy-father parts he was too pompous and elderly, and Lyn would tell him in despair, “Take twenty years off your age, for goodness’ sake.”
Sandra had a glorious time getting the clothes ready. They were such picturesque characters that she allowed all her creative imagination to run riot, and spent extravagantly to buy netting for the fairies’ dresses and cellophane for their wings. She had several fitting days, when she stuck pins into almost every part of their anatomy, and made them stand in the oddest positions, so that she could squint through half-closed eyes and see where the seams were wrong. She had very positive ideas about stage costumes.
“It doesn’t matter how bad the material is or how bad the sewing; all they need is colour and line.”
“Do you take me for a pin cushion?” roared Bulldog at Sandra as she stuck a pin through his epaulet into his shoulder.
“If you’d only stand still,” Sandra told him calmly, “I might finish sooner.”
Maddy burst in excitedly, “Look, I’ve been to see dear sweet old Mr. Smallgood and Whittlecock, and see what he’s given me.” She thrust under their noses two old pewter tankards. “They’ll do beautifully for the knights to drink from.”
“Did he actually lend them to you?” asked Sandra with surprise.
“Well,” hedged Maddy, “he didn’t actually say – ”
“Then you’ll take them straight back,” Sandra ordered her sternly.
“Oh, please not, Sandra! They’re so lovely. And I left a note saying I’d taken them, but I’d return them a week today.”
“You’ll go in tomorrow and ask his permission.”
“Yes, Sandra,” replied Maddy meekly.
But when she did enter the antique dealer’s he was so alarmed at seeing the Holy Terror again that he said quickly, “Take what you want, but bring it back!” Then he disappeared into the blackness of his den behind the shop.
They decided to have the dress rehearsal the day before the fête, and the day before that the boys went to the vicarage garden to put up the balcony. They had already chosen the spot to be used as a stage. It was a grass patch in front of a shrubbery, with a slight bank downwards to a tennis court, and behind the shrubbery would be back stage. Mrs. Bell had given them permission to use two bedrooms as dressing-rooms. The only drawback to this was that the stage was a long way from the house. They had spent some time gazing at a tree on one wing of the shrubbery, and wondering if it would do for a foundation for the balcony, when Jeremy said suddenly, “I’ve got it!”
“What?”
“We’ll borrow two trestle ladders from Blake’s; that’s where we got the glass for the theatre window, if you remember. We’ll put them some way apart under the tree, with a broadish plank across the middle. Then you can paint the balustrade part in white on a piece of board, and we’ll fix that on the front.”
“Sounds O.K. But how will Lyn get up there?” asked Bulldog sceptically. “Unless we build her in with it.”
“We could have a step-ladder behind,” suggested Nigel.
“But it would show.”
“Not if we draped the bottom with a white sheet.”
They set to work as soon as they had fetched the ladders from Blake’s, and wrestled with the task for the remainder of the day. When the girls came to inspect it in the afternoon Nigel was still painting marble pillars with whitewash on a piece of black creosoted wood.
“The sides of the wretched thing keep on getting un-equal,” he grumbled, rubbing his whitened hands down his dungarees.
“It looks better from a distance,” Lyn comforted him.
“So do you,” he told her.
She laughed. “Wait till you see me in my Juliet dress. Sandra’s made it beautifully. If that doesn’t make you act Romeo, nothing will.”
Maddy had climbed up the ladder and was standing on the plank when Jeremy caught sight of her.
“Stand still, you little idiot,” he shouted urgently. “It’s only just lodging on one side, and I haven’t roped either side yet.”
Maddy obediently stood still. “Do I stand and wait for it to collapse?” she wanted to know.
“No; jump and I’ll catch you. It’s not too high.”
“I come, loved one, I come!” cried Maddy melodramatically as she dropped into Jeremy’s arms.
By the evening the balcony was finished, and the final effect was good, although the actual structure was fragile. Two dark red curtains were suspended at the back of the balcony, through which Lyn was to enter, and the bottom was covered with a white sheet. The balustrade was very well painted, but Lyn had to be careful not to lean too heavily on it. Nigel and Bulldog surveyed their handiwork proudly.
“Oh, boy, does it look good or does it look good?” Bulldog asked with a Chicago accent.
Maddy giggled. “It looks like a Punch and Judy show,” she said. “Oh, I wish we could act a Punch and Judy show.”
“You could be the baby, and I’d be Punch, then I could drop you over the side,” Jeremy told her.
A lot of other parish workers were in the garden arranging their booths and sideshows, and Mrs. Potter-Smith’s shrill yap could be heard above the hammering and sawing as they cleared up the stage.
On their way home they stopped in front of the gate that led to Miller’s Hill and the fields. The sun was setting behind the single tree on the hilltop, and the sky was black and yellow and gold.
“Thunder tonight,” remarked Jeremy.
“Good job we thought to cover the balustrade with the sheet,” remarked Nigel, “and to take the curtains down.”
As they closed their front doors there came the first roll of thunder.
Lyn looked round the untidy bedroom of the vicarage. It was strewn with clothes and cosmetics, and Maddy and Vicky were sprawling on the bed, clad only in their undies. Lyn, still in her ordinary clothes, paced up and down impatiently.
“Do hurry, Sandra,” she urged. “The boys are waiting, and they’ll only start fooling around if you leave them.”
Jeremy’s voice from outside asked, “Aren’t you females ready yet?”
“No,” shouted Maddy. “I haven’t got a single garment on.”
“Tut, tut! Turning the vicar’s bedroom into a nudist camp! Do hurry, Sandra, I want you to put on my eyebrows for me.”
“Oh, don’t be such a worrit. I can’t get the fairies’ wings fixed on the dresses.”
“Can I come in and help?” Jeremy wanted to know.
“Not unless you can bear the sight of Maddy, deshabillée.”
“I’ll wait,” sighed Jeremy resignedly.
At last the cellophane wings were fixed on the fairies’ shoulders and attached by rubber bands to their wrists.
“You can come in, Jeremy.”
Sandra made up his face till he looked like the demon king in a pantomime.
“Gosh,” Jeremy peered into the mirror, “what have you done with my real eyebrows?”
“Powdered them out,” Sandra informed him. “Now, are we all ready for the fairy scene?”
They went down to the stage and when they got there they stood still, dumbfounded. On the raised part stood a large trestle table bearing an urn, and Mrs. Potter-Smith was draping the legs with pink crêpe paper.
“Hallo, kiddies! All dressed up?” she cooed. They did not reply, so she babbled on. “Such a nice little place I’ve found for the refreshments, and we can have some tables on the tennis pitch” – they winced – “and some behind the shrubbery, so my customers can sit either in the sun or the shade.”
“But, Mrs. Potter-Smith,” expostulated Nigel, “didn’t the vicar tell you he’s let us have this part of the garden?”
“No, my dear!” Her pale blue eyes popped out at them. “The dear vicar said to me, ‘Mrs. Potter-Smith, anywhere in the garden is yours, anywhere.’ That’s what he said.” She smiled at them complacently.
“But, please, don’t you see we have some of our scenery up and all ready?” Nigel drew aside the sheets that covered the balcony.
“Fair’s fair, dear boy, fair’s fair. You have your – er – buildings and I have my table.” She smiled sweetly at him, showing a large set of false teeth.
“Fair is fair!” shouted Nigel, forgetting his manners for once. “All’s fair in love and war, and this is not love!” He strode angrily off.
“Dear, dear! I think it must be the thunder that’s made him get into such a paddy,” said Mrs. Potter-Smith, still in a good temper, as she unwound reams of paper.
The Blue Doors stood helplessly watching her until Nigel returned with Mr. Bell, both looking harassed.
“Vicar, dear,” crooned the high-priestess of refreshments, “don’t you think my table looks too dinky?”
“Very nice, Mrs. Potter-Smith, very nice. But – ”
“You’re not going to make me leave this delightful little nook, surely?” she asked him in a coquettishly reproachful voice.
The vicar ran his hand through his grey hair; then his ever-ready tact came to the rescue.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve just had a disturbing thought. You know that the old Countess of Brackenshire is going to open the fête?”
“No! But how lovely! The countess is a dear friend of mine,” claimed Mrs. Potter-Smith eagerly. She had a weakness for the nobility.
“Then she will be sure to come and have some refreshments, will she not?”
“Why, yes, dear vicar, yes definitely.”
“I was wondering,” said Mr. Bell gravely, “if she would be able to manage the walk right down to this part of the grounds. She is nearly eighty, you know.”
Mrs. Potter-Smith’s large teeth bit her bottom lip, meditatively and regretfully.
“True. I see your point.” She gave in, beaming. “Well, in that case, perhaps, I’ll move nearer the gates.” She smiled at Nigel. “You see, you have only to ask me nicely – ”
“Shall I help you to carry your table?” Nigel asked politely, and his good breeding was restored in the eyes of Mrs. Potter-Smith. Perspiring profusely, she trotted to another part of the grounds.
“Now perhaps we can start. Overture and beginners,” shouted Lyn at the back of the shrubbery.
Jeremy began “Standchen” on his violin, and on to the grassy stage danced Maddy and Vicky as Puck and the fairy.
“Stop, stop!” cried Lyn, in heartbroken tones. “Maddy, less like an elephant with toothache, please. Vicky, show her again.”
Vicky, a floating cobweb compared with Maddy, danced Maddy’s steps for the few opening bars. The next time Maddy managed it, and they were able to get on with the scene.
“Don’t stand like a statue,” ordered Lyn. “Move about a bit, Maddy. More ethereal.”
Maddy’s nerves were on edge, and she stuck out her tongue in a most unethereal manner. Just after Puck and the fairy had made their exit and Sandra and Jeremy had taken the stage, some loud hammering started near by. They stopped, exasperated.
“Go and see what it is,” ordered Lyn.
Bulldog came back a few seconds later grinning. “Be prepared to laugh. It’s the coconut shies just going up. The man has hammered in one stake, and there are nineteen more.”
Lyn flopped on to the grass. “Who’d be an amateur actress!”
The rest of the rehearsal of the fairy scene was accompanied by heavy blows, back-stage, that made Vicky fall over several times during her acrobatic dance. She finished up absolutely exhausted and pale in the face, leaned against a tree, and gasped, “Gosh, I feel all dizzy.” Nigel carried her back to the girls’ dressing-room and laid her on the bed.
“It’s only the heat,” she told them, as they hovered anxiously round her. “You get on with the rehearsal.”
When they came back after the revel scene, in which they all forgot their lines, she was much better.
“It’s so muggy,” grumbled Lyn, “I can’t bother to have my face made up for Juliet.”
But when she was up in the balcony she regretted this decision, for several helpers, who had been erecting their stalls, came to watch. Miss Thropple, the tall spinster who sang “Cherry Ripe” at the Ladies’ Institute, was among them, and she chattered to the churchwarden’s wife all the time in her high-pitched, screechy voice. Lyn had just got to “Hist! Oh, for a falconer’s voice” when the first drops of rain fell. All day there had been thunder in the distance. The rain dashed down on the grass and the trees bowed humbly.
Holding their clothes tightly around them, the actors ran for the vicarage. When they had reached the door Lyn turned to Nigel and panted, “The balcony, cover it up!” and Nigel in his Romeo clothes had to brave the torrent, to sprint back to cover the whitewashed part, and to remove the curtains.
They dressed slowly and bad-temperedly. The dresses for Romeo and Juliet would have to be taken home and dried, and the balcony curtains were soaked. Nigel returned with them, using all the bad words in his vocabulary.
“That darned balcony has collapsed,” he told them furiously.
Lyn threw her head back and laughed. “The end of a perfect dress rehearsal!”
13
GARDEN FÊTE
When the sun rose over Fenchester next morning it shone on a sad scene in
the vicarage garden. All the gay draperies of the stalls were reduced to sodden masses of pulp, and the flags that were strung across the lawn hung damply and despondently. But when the Blue Doors arrived, about midday, they found the elements trying to make up for the destruction they had caused the previous night. The sun was burning fiercely and all the tables and chairs were drying, the sky was a continental blue, dotted with puffs of cloud.
“No bigger than a man’s hand,” quoted Nigel biblically, “and certainly there’s enough blue sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers.”
Maddy did a hand-stand, expressive of delight. “Gosh!” she cried, as she lumped down on her back, “it’s just the day for a garden fête.”
As they walked over the wet grass to the stage Lyn said anxiously, “Do you think it will be O.K. tonight?”
It was the tenth time she had asked this question that morning, so no one bothered to reply.
“We didn’t even finish Romeo and Juliet last night,” she complained, “so we can’t tell whether we should have gone on one of our circular tours or not.”
“We’ll have to have prompters,” Jeremy decided. “There’s plenty of cover for them in the shrubbery.”
“I’ll prompt for the fairy scene,” offered Lyn, “and Vicky can for the revel scene, and anyone can for the balcony scene.”
When they arrived at the stage they found the balcony had not come to much harm. The sheet was soaked, but it had certainly protected the painting, and Nigel, after inspecting it thoroughly, pronounced that they would soon get it up again and as good as new. The boys went up to their changing-rooms and put on their dungarees, and in a quarter of an hour the balcony, a little damp, but otherwise sound, was fit to be inhabited. The rest of the morning they spent in arranging all the costumes so that they could find them easily and in order.
“We don’t want to waste a lot of time this afternoon,” said Sandra, “laying out the make-up on the dressing-table.”
“I’m looking forward to it, aren’t you?” asked Maddy excitedly.
“I’m not,” said Lyn, with a white face; “I’m terrified. I’m sure we’ve bitten off more than we can chew. The audience will be bored and find it far too highbrow.”