The Swish of the Curtain (Blue Door Book 1)

by Pamela Brown

  “Nonsense,” said Bulldog, entering at this moment. “I’m going to be anything but highbrow.”

  “Oh, you.” Lyn was scornful, “I’m talking about myself.”

  “Perhaps, Lyn,” Sandra said, with a little crooked smile that meant more than her words, “you’ll be comforted if you remember that, even though people don’t like the extract that you’re in, they may like the others.”

  Lyn took the rebuff sensibly, and for the next few minutes tried to think less of her own part.

  “I came to see if you could lend us some more cold cream, because the pot you gave us is half empty,” said Bulldog.

  “Sorry. We’ve only got just enough for ourselves.”

  “Blow you! I’ll have to go down to Woolworth’s and get some.” He came back a few minutes later and said, as he passed their door on the way to the boys’ room, “Whatever do you think I did? I went out in my dungarees, and who should I meet but the bishop!”

  “Bulldog! You awful boy!” reproached Vicky. “What did he say?”

  “He looked at me very hard, then said, ‘Hullo, Percy, I thought you were an errand boy at first.’”

  “He’s so fastidious about clothes,” sighed Lyn, “I’m sure he thinks that we girls ought to dress more neatly and conventionally.”

  “What are you wearing this afternoon?” Sandra wanted to know, and there followed a discussion as to whether they should wear socks or silk stockings.

  “I’m wearing socks! I’m wearing socks!” said Maddy determinedly, and continued to repeat this statement until Vicky flung a cushion at her.

  “Of course you’re wearing socks!” Sandra quelled her. “You’re only a little girl.”

  “I’m not wearing stockings,” said Vicky the tomboy. “I wouldn’t if you paid me to.”

  “I’m going to,” Sandra told them.

  Lyn wrinkled her brow, then shook her head angrily. “Oh, why bother about socks and stockings and footling things like that when there are big things at stake?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lyn walked to the window and looked out over the green tree tops of the garden.

  “I have presentiments and premonitions, and you know my prophecies always come true.”

  She turned and faced the others, who were looking at her in puzzled surprise.

  “Something important is going to happen tonight,” she cried. “And I think it’s going to happen to me.”

  The other girls could never understand her when she was in this kind of mood.

  “You’re over-excited,” Sandra told her anxiously.

  “I am,” she agreed; “and I want to keep in this mood because it makes me act, but if Nigel is as dumb tonight,” she shrugged her shoulders, “it’s all up with me.”

  Vicky, angry at the criticism of her brother, tried to say something, but Lyn went on:

  “I’m sorry to say things about Nigel, Vicky, but really he doesn’t seem to care whether he acts well or not as Romeo, and he must know how much I want to play Juliet decently.”

  “He’ll act tonight,” Vicky assured her. “But you know that none of us, I or my brothers, can act well. Only Bulldog can clown a bit.”

  “I’m sorry to get so het up,” apologized Lyn; “but the mornings before shows are dreadful when there’s not much to do. Let’s go outside and see if we can help anyone else.”

  They found Miss Thropple, who was presiding over a stall of mineral waters, staggering backwards and forwards with crates of bottles containing highly coloured liquids.

  “Can we help?” asked Sandra, and under the influence of manual labour they began to forget their nerves.

  Maddy sang tunelessly as she made journeys from the stall to the lorry that brought the drinks, and back again. She felt completely self-confident about Maria, and as for the fairy – well, she didn’t mind how badly she failed in that, as long as she might make a hit in Twelfth Night! Short though her part was, Bulldog made a perfect partner for foolery, and he made all the people with whom he acted appear as funny as himself. He was happy this morning, knowing that it was in his power to amuse the audience.

  Sandra’s emotions were the least disturbed of the company’s. The mirror told her that she looked pretty in her clothes for Titania, and she always managed the part well enough, but not outstandingly, and Jeremy, with whom she played the scene, was no better and no worse than herself. He, however, was feeling unhappy about his part as Sir Andrew. Bulldog could be depended on to make the scene a success, but Jeremy knew that in comparison his rendering of Sir Andrew would be feeble. He comforted himself with the thought that, to make up for it, he would play his violin extra well for Vicky’s dance. Vicky, on her journey back to the lorry for another crate, practised steps from her dance with a light heart. None of the acrobatics were to be contortional, as the whole thing must be kept “fantastic”. Vicky, in the middle of a series of fouettées, stopped to laugh a moment at the reminder of Mrs. Potter-Smith’s use of the word.

  Nigel trudged to and fro with a crate under each arm. He was unhappy. Tonight he would make a fool of himself, he felt certain, and it would let Lyn down and she would be furious. He did not know what was the matter with him, but his lines as Romeo just did not stir him. His previous parts had not been inspiring, certainly, but he had been able to feel that he was the character he was playing.

  “Perhaps I’ve been working so hard I’ve forgotten how to act,” he thought sadly. “I feel awfully grown-up.”

  Suddenly he saw the Blue Door Theatre Company in a different perspective, not as his one burning interest in life, as, like the others, he had hitherto regarded it, but just as a small episode in his life. He saw himself, a grown-up, saying to someone else, “When I was a kid we used to act little plays and things at parish functions. Quite fun!” The scene was so clear that he blushed and looked to see if the others had read his disloyal thoughts, for long ago they had decided that the company must go on for ever.

  All the others, perspiring but looking happy on the whole, were carting crates and either talking or thinking of the coming performance. The birds were singing and the Ladies’ Institute were chattering as they cut sandwiches. Nigel felt safe again, and once more believed in the Blue Door Theatre Company as the one thing to live for, as it embodied everything for which he cared. In a flash he saw himself painting backcloth after backcloth, and the others laughing and ragging near by. He felt a sudden and overpowering affection for them. This was how he meant to spend his life!

  When they went into their houses for dinner Sandra said, “What time shall we go this afternoon?”

  “Not too early, or we shall have to listen to a lot of dreary speeches from that cowlike countess,” said Lyn.

  “I know something we’ve got to do. We must sell all those programmes that the vicar typed for us,” Nigel reminded them.

  “Oh, yes,” Sandra said. “And if people say, ‘Don’t bother about my change’, as they so often do at sales of work and things, don’t be polite and give it to them, because we need every penny we can get. I’ve spent nearly ten shillings on costumes.”

  “It’s O.K.,” Jeremy told her. “The vicar has typed four hundred copies, and if we only sell half of them at a halfpenny each, we shall get – er – well, about – nearly ten shillings,” he added vaguely.

  “We won’t announce anything, so people must have programmes.” Maddy was always full of methods for making money. “And when we say, ‘Would you care to buy a programme for the entertainment’, we hold the backs of the programmes to the prospective buyer so that he can't see all he wants, and be able to say, ‘No, my dear, I don’t think so.’”

  “You stingy little thing!” laughed Jeremy.

  “Well, cheerio; about three then, this afternoon.”

  None of the Blue Doors ate much dinner, and afterwards the girls retired to their rooms to get ready. As it was early Lyn drew the curtains and lay down on her bed with a damp cloth over her face, to have a rest. A fly was buzzin
g round on the window pane; if she opened her eyes she could see her new dress hanging on the end of the bed. It was a pleated pinafore frock of green silk, and she had a light green organdie blouse. She thought with satisfaction of the dark green sandals that stood new and shiny under the bed, and the green-tinted socks in the dressing-table drawer. The fly buzzed louder and louder, and she slept. Jeremy was in the kitchen, trying to persuade his mother to iron his blue shirt.

  “There’s no need to be such a dandy,” his mother told him sharply. “Not quite everyone will be looking at you.”

  “But think what a nice thing it would be if one person were to look at me and say, ‘Doesn’t the mother of that handsome Darwin boy dress him beautifully?’”

  “Handsome!” snorted Mrs. Darwin, but Jeremy got his shirt ironed.

  The Corner House was full of the sound of running water. Nigel got into a cold bath and wondered whether he would ever be as delightfully cool again. Vicky was pedicuring her feet, a thing she never failed to do when she went to dance, and which was more important than ever today, as she was to be barefoot. She stood on tiptoe in front of the mirror. Her dancing-mistress had told her she had flexible feet. They looked quite normal to her. There were alarming thumps next door, and she went to investigate, and found Bulldog dancing in his dressing-gown.

  “Whatever do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m just practising some silly steps for the end of the revel scene, where Jeremy and I exit dancing.”

  Vicky taught him some more, and he soon paralyzed her with laughter as he bumped and twisted about the bedroom.

  Maddy was just tying her hair in its usual tight, fat, stumpy pigtails when Sandra came in.

  “Don’t do that, Maddy; have it loose today. You’ve got to, for the fairy.”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to all the time. I look such a cissy.”

  Sandra snatched the comb away from her and combed it out on to her shoulders, and forced it to wave at the back. She had magic in her fingers when she was hairdressing, and Maddy looked at herself with approval when it was done. “’Snice,” she decided.

  “You look quite pretty,” Sandra told her. “Your dress makes your eyes blue as anything.”

  Maddy was wearing a bright blue frock with white smocking at the neck and waist, black ankle-strap shoes and white socks.

  “Yes,” Sandra nodded appreciatively, “you’ll do the family credit this afternoon.”

  Sandra too was wearing a blue silk dress and a gay bolero that she had embroidered herself. Silk stockings had been her final decision, and she wore blue sandals.

  When they congregated at three o’clock Bulldog clapped his hand over his face in simulated dazzlement.

  “My hat! What a bevy of beauties!” he cried; “and they deign to walk down the street with me. Boy! oh boy!”

  “You look less like an errand boy than usual, I must say,” Lyn complimented him.

  He bowed low, and a lock of ginger hair fell away from its neatly greased and smoothed companions, into its usual position over his brow.

  “Thank you, fair lady,” he said, as he brushed it back. “That word of encouragement had made me your servant for ever, and if you’ll remove the smudge of powder from your left eyebrow I should be your slave.”

  “Keep your fooling for tonight,” Lyn advised him.

  They walked along chattering and laughing with the rather hectic excitement that overtook them before performances. The radiogram, playing “The Merry Widow Waltz”, could be heard long before they reached the vicarage grounds, and when they walked through the big iron gates they found the fête in full swing. The grounds were crowded with elderly church people, eager to help a good cause, and young people, out to have a good time. The Blue Doors knew everyone and everyone knew them, so first of all they walked round talking to their acquaintances. John Flanders was there with his mother, a horse-faced majestic woman with long dangling earrings. He pounced on Lyn, with a delicate compliment on her appearance, and asked if she would mind if he introduced her to his mother.

  “This is Lynette, Mother,” he said.

  Lyn shook hands, remembered not to say, “Pleased to meet you,” and said, “How do you do.”

  “So you’re Lyn.” Mrs. Flanders looked her up and down, and she felt sure she was standing with her toes turned in, and that she had not removed the smudge from her eyebrow. “I’ve heard such a lot about your acting from John that I had to come and see your play today.”

  Lyn could not think of anything to say. Mrs. Flanders was rather terrifying. “It’s a lovely day,” she blurted out, “compared with yesterday.” Mrs. Flanders was still sizing her up, and seemed to be calculating exactly how much her clothes cost.

  John said, still gazing admiringly at her, “I wonder if you’d come and have tea with us, Lyn, when it’s tea-time?”

  Lyn thought quickly. She knew very well that the Blue Doors had arranged to have their tea together, but how could she refuse?

  “Yes, Lynette,” urged John’s mother, “we should be pleased if you would.”

  Lyn crossed her fingers and told a lie. “It’s most kind of you, Mrs. Flanders” – she smiled her society smile – “but I never eat before I act.”

  “How temperamental of you. I’m sure you must be destined for the stage, if you have these odd habits.”

  Lyn decided that she disliked Mrs. Flanders, and she did not like the way John was looking at her, so, crossing her fingers again, she said, “If you will excuse me, I have to go and speak to my mother. She has a houp-la stall. I do hope you’ll come and patronize it.”

  “‘Patronize’ is the right word,” she added mentally. Mrs. Flanders made a delicate moue of disgust, and her earrings jingled. “The travelling-fair type of amusement has never appealed to me,” she said in a superior voice.

  “Well, cheerio, John.”

  “Good-bye, Lyn. I’ll be wishing you luck all the time.”

  For the sake of her conscience she made her way to the houp-la stall, where a roaring trade was going on.

  “Mother, if a horse-faced lady and a boy in a Grammar School blazer come here, that’s Mrs. Flanders and John, so be nice to them.”

  She went to find the rest of the Blue Doors. They were watching Nigel, who was trying his hand at skittles.

  “Hullo,” he said, when she came up. “Where’s the boy friend?”

  “John? Oh, I left him with his mother.”

  “Best place for him,” growled Bulldog. “Come on, Nigel, knock one of those front ones, and you may get an embroidered penwiper.”

  “Mrs. Flanders asked me to have tea with them,” Lyn told Sandra.

  She was impressed. “What did you say?”

  Lyn told her the excuse she had made, ending up loudly, in hopes that Nigel would hear. “You see, I’d much rather be with the gang.” But Nigel had just knocked over two skittles with one ball. The proprietor of the skittle stand, one of the church bell-ringers, asked, “What’ll you have? Cigarettes or chocolates?” Nigel chose chocolates and shared them out equally with the seven. When they had eaten them Vicky asked, “What now?”

  “Let’s try everything, then start selling the programmes.”

  They visited every stall and threw rings at vases, balls at coconuts, and darts at boards with continual luck.

  “What I like about charity fêtes is that you feel your money is going to a good cause – and you get more for it,” said Maddy ethically, as she hugged a coconut, a china vase, and a picture of “The Monarch of the Glen”.

  The grounds got more and more crowded with ladies in silk frocks and wide hats and children in their Sunday clothes. Everyone to whom the Blue Doors spoke said that they intended to stay for the entertainment in the evening, and that they were looking forward to it. Mrs. Potter-Smith, perspiring behind the refreshment stall, ladled out ice cream after ice cream, while Miss Thropple’s mineral waters were drunk freely. As the afternoon wore on the sun got hotter, the radiogram blared louder, and t
he whole garden seemed to the children to be a kaleidoscope of colour. About half-past four, when most of the people had retired to the little tables on the tennis court for tea, Sandra said, “Now is the time to sell the programmes. If we attack people at tea they’ll buy one to get rid of us.” The programmes were half sheets of foolscap, on which was typed:

  THE BLUE DOOR THEATRE COMPANY

  Nigel, Victoria, and Percy Halford, Sandra and Madelaine Fayne, and Lynette and Jeremy Darwin

  present to you extracts from Shakespeare.

  I. A Fairy Scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Fairy . . . . . Madelaine Fayne

  Puck . . . . . Victoria Halford

  Oberon . . . . Jeremy Darwin

  Titania . . . . Sandra Fayne

  II. A Revel Scene from Twelfth Night.

  Maria . . . . . Madelaine Fayne

  Sir Toby . . . . Percy Halford

  Sir Andrew . . . Jeremy Darwin

  III. The Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet.

  Juliet . . . . . Lynette Darwin

  Romeo . . . . Nigel Halford

  Costumes : Sandra Fayne

  Scenery : Nigel Halford

  They went round hawking the programmes. Maddy was the most successful. Knowing the weaker sex, where money is concerned, she concentrated mainly on elderly gentlemen.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Green.”

  “Good afternoon, Maddy. Enjoying yourself?”

  “Rather! Are you staying to see our plays?”

  “Yes; I wouldn’t miss them for anything.”

  “Do you know what we’re going to do?” she would ask conversationally.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Very much.”

  Here Maddy would produce a programme from behind her back, slam it down on the tea-table, and hold out her hand, “Programmes, halfpenny each, in aid of expenses.” They very soon got rid of the full four hundred, and as a lot of people had refused to accept their change they found they had collected just over a pound.

  “I’ve spent eighteen and three by now,” Sandra informed them; “so we’ve got two and ninepence for the Bible Campaign fund.”