by Kaye Umansky
Mrs Ferguson didn’t seem to mind. ‘I’m glad you’ve had fun,’ she said. ‘I heard you giggling all the way from the kitchen. You must come again, Tim. Flora doesn’t have many friends back.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Mrs Ferguson.’
She and Flora stood at the door and waved until I got to my house. Then they went in, to clear up. I felt a bit guilty. I should have stayed and helped.
Still, I now had a costume. It was pretty elaborate, too, what with the wood pigeons and the nest and the green material foliage and the extra boughs coming out of the swimming cap, not to mention the acorns. It filled a black bin liner. I was pleased with it.
When I got home, Mum was giving Kenny his bath and Dad was out in the garage fixing the car, so I put on some pasta and went to see if I could make the TV work. Sadly, I forgot the pasta, which stuck to the pan and set off the smoke alarm again. Mum came running down, with Kenny all wet and thrashing in her arms, while I tried to find a towel to shut the thing off. And Dad came in, grumbling that he’d banged his head on the underside of the car door. Mum suggested we get the AA to come and look it over, and there was another exchange of words about that.
I live in a mad house.
Chapter Five
I’m not going to go on about the acting rehearsals in Blue Class, which dragged on through a million dreary lunch hours. Suffice to say, we struggled through to the end, then started from the beginning again. And again. And again and again and again, until everyone knew their words. But it was still dull and uninspiring. Josh and Dillon did their best with Prince John and the Sheriff, hamming up the fist waving and trying to sound wicked and heartless, but they couldn’t liven things up, because of the daft words they had to say.
Let’s move on to the first time we did the stagger through in the hall. That’s the theatrical term for fitting everything together. Actors, choir, orchestra and dancers. Everything except the backdrop, which Mr Huff was working on in his spare time, when he wasn’t making sarcastic comments about maps of Australia.
The stagger through is always chaotic. There’s never enough room on stage and people keep talking when they shouldn’t. The choir’s always got the wrong bit of music and the kid with the violin always breaks a string. The teachers get shrill, too. Mrs Axworthy is the overall director, of course, but she gets help. Miss Joy does the music. Miss Steffani trains the dancers. She also does the fight sequences, such as they are. In this case, there was only one, between Robin and Little John, and it was pathetic. It looked so unfair. You found yourself rooting for Little John, which isn’t right, surely? I said as much to Charlotte Francis, who happened to be standing next to me, yawning and fiddling with her hair.
‘Hilarious, isn’t it?’ I said, watching Little Thomas Kite feebly waving his stick at James’s knees.
‘What?’
‘Those two.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well — the height difference. James and Little Thomas. It’s like a fight between Long John Baldry and a Munchkin.’
(Long John Baldry is an old, very tall, rock star. He is a favourite of my dad’s. Mum prefers Celine Dion.)
‘Are you saying Thomas is short?’ Charlotte looked at me with cold, grey eyes and curled her lip.
Oops. I had done it all wrong. The girls love Little Thomas. They love him because he’s short. I think he brings out their mothering instinct.
‘Well, yes. I mean, nothing wrong with that, but Little John is an ironic name, you see, he’s supposed to be this massive great...’
I was talking to air. She had moved away to the radiator, to join her cronies. She said something to them, and suddenly every girl in the room was looking at me in a coldly critical way.
I tried again, when the Merry Men were doing their scene.
‘Not very merry, are they?’ I whispered, sidling up.
‘What?’
‘I said they’re not very merry. Alan Adale looks like he’s forgotten his sandwiches. And Will Scarlet looks like the dog ate his homework. And as for Friar Tuck...’
She had moved away again. All right. I got the message. She wasn’t speaking to me. I was a tree.
When it came to my bit, I did it. I suffered, but I got on and did it. I stood there gamely waving my arms around while Marion and the handmaidens did their skipping dance around me. Shanti kicked me in the shin and Charlotte avoided looking at me the whole time, I noticed. They clearly hadn’t forgiven me for my remark about Little Thomas.
‘You don’t have to hold your arms in the air the whole time, Tim,’ said Mrs Axworthy.
‘I expect they’re aching, aren’t they?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, nobly. ‘I’m used to it, with the smoke alarm.’
She looked a bit puzzled, then told me to get out of the way because Robin and his Merry Men were on next and there wasn’t room for me on stage. I thought this was ridiculous, having a tree go shuffling off in the middle of a scene, but Mrs Axworthy said there was no way round it.
I shuffled on again, to deliver the couplets which finished the first act. Then I was offstage for the next eight pages. On again so the peasants could dance around me. Off again, to make room for a load more people. On again so the leaves could do their bit. I was quite looking forward to the Leaf Dance so I could see Flora in fluttering action, but she was away that day, so I didn’t have that pleasure.
Mr Cunningham came out of his office and stood in the doorway for part of that awful, rubbishy rehearsal. He just stood and watched. Then he went away again. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
We ran through it all again the next day, and the next. And then —
Finally. The dress rehearsal. The bit that everyone enjoys.
There was still no sign of Flora, so I called in on my way to school. Her mum opened the door.
‘Why, Tim!’ she said, all pleased. ‘How nice to see you.’
‘Is Flora all right?’ I asked. ‘It’s just that she hasn’t been at school.’
‘Bit of a tummy bug,’ said Mrs Ferguson, adjusting her weight on her stick. ‘Or else she’s eaten something. And then I got it, I’m afraid, and she insisted on staying home to look after me.’
Poor old Flora. Three days in a house full of sick. I felt rotten. I should have rung her. I meant to, but somehow I never got round to it.
‘It’s the dress rehearsal for the play today,’ I said.
‘Oh no!’ She gave a gasp. ‘Is it? The play’s not tomorrow is it? I must have written down the wrong date on the calendar! I thought it was Friday week.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Really? Flora!’ Mrs Ferguson called into the house. ‘Flora, it’s the dress rehearsal today!’
There was a short pause, and then Flora appeared at her side. She had her book bag and a carrier bag, which I supposed contained her leaf costume. She looked a bit groggy.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Fine.’
‘Did you know it was today, darling?’ asked her mum.
‘Yes,’ said Flora.
‘I must have written it down wrong. You didn’t tell me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Flora. ‘I meant to.’
‘Oh well, never mind. It makes no difference to me. I don’t exactly have a lot on my social calendar. But you must have missed all the important dancing rehearsals.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Flora. ‘It’s not Swan Lake. We only leap about and flutter.’
‘Hey!’ I said. ‘You’ll be leaping and fluttering around me, remember?’
I was trying to make her smile. It didn’t work.
We said goodbye to her mum, who stood in the doorway waving and wishing us good luck.
‘Dance well, darling!’ she shouted. ‘I know you will. Take off your glasses! And don’t forget to let your hair out! Use the band!’
‘Looking forward to it?’ I asked Flora, as we walked along the road, her with h
er carrier and me with my bin bag full of tree.
‘No,’ she said, shortly. ‘I’m dreading it, if you must know.’
‘Why did you audition, then?’
‘Because of Mum. She was so keen for me to be in it this year. She never says much, but I know how disappointed she gets. There was no way I could act, but I thought she’d be pleased if I danced.’
‘Well, she is,’ I said. ‘She’s thrilled.’
‘I know. But I hate it. I’m a terrible dancer. I’m taller than everyone else, for a start. And I’ve got huge, clumsy feet. Everyone else is small and dainty. And I have to leave my glasses off so I can’t see properly. And I look awful with my hair out. Whenever the leaf music starts up, I get so nervous I think I’m going to throw up.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you do, try not to do it over my roots.’
I was still trying to cheer her up.
‘All right,’ said Flora, with a sigh. ‘I’ll aim for a marauding rabbit.’
‘Got any new jokes?’ I asked, just to keep things light. She didn’t reply, so I guessed she hadn’t. We were passing Mr Smallman’s house at the time. He’s got a big Rottweiler called Duke who always barks at us through the gate.
‘Poor old Duke,’ sighed Flora, sadly, as the barking started up.
‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Mr Smallman took him to the vet because he’s got crossed eyes. He was telling me about it. The vet picked him up and looked at his teeth, then his eyes. Then he said he’d have to put him down.’
‘Whaat? Because he’s got crossed eyes?’
‘No. Because he’s really heavy. Boom-boom!’
I laughed loudly at that. Flora gave a weak grin. She still looked pale, though.
•
The dress rehearsal was the sort of shambles that I have come to know and love so well. It’s great seeing everyone else in costume for the first time, and having them make comments about you. My wood pigeons got a lot of attention. So did the acorns. Mrs Axworthy asked what the strange growth was on my shoulder, but saw immediately it was a nest when I told her.
Do you want to hear about the costumes? I’ll tell you. Robin wore a green shirt, a hat with a feather and his sister Shirley’s green, woolly tights. She’s not as tall as he is, so he looked a bit uncomfortable. The Merry Men sported a selection of their mothers’ old green jumpers and blouses, belted in. Will Scarlett’s came from Top Shop. I know, because Mum’s got the same one.
Friar Tuck wore a brown dressing gown with a cushion stuffed up it. The Royals wore a selection of curtains and crowns and the Peasants had straw hats. Marion’s lot wore long dresses and wimples. And the leaves — well, they were also kitted out in a rag bag of green jumpers and tights and tracksuit bottoms. All except Flora.
Poor old Flora. Her mum had gone to town. It was a proper outfit, with a stiff skirt like ballet dancers wear. The top had been cut in a leaf shape, with jagged bits. In a way, it was a work of art. There were even embroidered veins. And there was a matching wafty scarf thing, which twined around her neck. But it didn’t do a thing for her.
The leaf-shaped bodice cut in under her arms and the skirt was too short. Her green tights ended at the ankle, making her big feet really noticeable. Worst of all, she had let her hair out. Holding it in place was a thick, green band with a weird bow on it. She really stuck out amongst the other leaves. Like some sort of invasive growth. She had taken off her glasses, as her mum had instructed, but I have to say she looked better with them on.
We have assemblies about kindness in our school. Nobody said anything when she came trudging in, head down, face crimson. Well, nobody except Charlotte. She gave a loud, sniggering laugh, behind her hand. Everyone heard it.
I couldn’t look at Flora’s face. No wonder she had been off sick.
Like I said, the rehearsal was a mess, because everyone was overexcited. The scenery was up now — a backdrop of Sherwood Forest, which transformed into the inside of Prince John’s castle when turned round. The lights had arrived, too. Everything was happening at once and it was all too much. Everybody was giggly and silly and forgot everything they had practised. The teachers were in a panic as well. Miss Joy spilled her tea over the piano and Mrs Axworthy and Miss Steffani shouted a lot.
Mr Cunningham came to watch for a bit. When he was around, we all calmed down and got on with it. The actors spoke their awful lines, the choir sang their awful songs and the dancers cavorted. I avoided looking at Flora when it was time for the Leaf Dance. I just stared at the sky, shook my acorns and waved my branches about. So I don’t know how she got on with her fluttering.
After the Leaf Dance, I trundled offstage. Marion and Robin were waiting to go on, together with the handmaidens and the Merry Men, but they had to wait for the leaves to get off.
‘Honestly,’ said Charlotte. ‘What on earth does Flora Ferguson look like?’
‘She said her mum made it,’ said Wendy.
‘Looks like it,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s gross.’
I looked across the stage at Flora, who was as red as a beetroot and sweating a lot, but clearly relieved the ordeal was over for now.
‘Totally gross,’ sneered Charlotte, again.
Suddenly, I was mad. Suddenly, I didn’t care if her socks sparkled.
‘Why don’t you just shut up, Charlotte?’ I said.
She looked amazed. I’ve never been rude to her before. Her eyes went all flinty. She said, curtly:
‘Why don’t you shut up, Tim? You’re just a tree.’
She was right, of course. I was.
Chapter Six
It was the big night. Mum and Dad were coming, with Kenny. They knew I was only a tree, of course. I’d finally told them. They went on about how the size of the part didn’t matter, and we went through the whole thing about giving other children a chance. But I know they felt a bit sorry for me. For themselves, too. For years, they’ve basked in my reflected glory. Years of people coming up and complimenting them on my triumphant performances and saying I should go to stage school. They love it — although not enough to cough up the money and send me to one.
The performance was at seven o’clock. All the performers had to be there at six. I called for Flora so we could go together.
I rang the bell and waited on the doorstep. I didn’t feel like I usually do on the night of the school play. Last year, when I was God, I walked on air. Not in a supernatural way, I hasten to add. I mean I was all churned up, excited and busting to get on stage and start thundering. I was a tiny bit nervous, but not much. I had a great part and I knew I’d be good. (And I was.) But this year, I felt a bit flat. The play was boring and there was nothing I could do about it because I was a tree.
Flora answered the door. She was eating an apple.
‘Ready?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, spitting a chunk on my jacket. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Where’s your mum?’
‘Upstairs getting ready. It takes her a while. Mum! I’m off!’
‘All right, darling!’ shouted Mrs Ferguson from on high. ‘I’ll be there early to get a good seat. Good luck! Good luck, Tim!’
‘Thanks, Mrs Ferguson,’ I called.
Off we went.
‘Nervous?’ I said.
‘I’ve got bats in my stomach,’ said Flora, miserably.
‘I thought it was butterflies.’
‘It was, but bats came and ate them. This apple is the first thing I’ve eaten all day.’
‘Ah, don’t worry. Who’s going to notice you? You’re only a dancer.’ That came out sounding wrong. Mean. Rude. Just plain wrong. ‘Sorry,’ I added.
‘It’s OK. I don’t want to be noticed.’
‘Your mum will notice you, anyway. Won’t she?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. Anyway, I can’t talk. Nobody’ll notice me either. I’m a tree, for crying out loud. A massive disappointment for my many fans, but there it is.’
‘I’ll notice you, dahling,’ said Flora, putting on a posh, actressy, mock-admiring voice. ‘All that super, fabulous swishing you do. And your lovely, lovely acorns.’
‘And my couplets, dahling,’ I agreed, in rich, actorly tones. ‘Don’t forget them.’
‘How could I? High spot of the play. Today a tree, tomorrow Hamlet, eh what?’
We were doing our daft old routine. But our hearts weren’t really in it.
‘Hey, Flora. Did you know one in five people in the world are Chinese?’ I asked.
‘They are?’
‘Yep. There are five in our family. That means one of us must be Chinese. There’s Mum, Dad, me, Kenny and our new baby, Ho Ma Chin. I think it’s Kenny.’
I’d been saving this one for an emergency. She giggled a bit.
When we got to school, the face paints were all set out and the lights up and working. The backstage helpers were setting out the benches for the choir, and the orchestra was unpacking their instruments (drum, violin, three recorders and cymbal, if you’re interested. Oh, and somebody’s grandad on flugal horn.) Miss Joy was sorting the music, Miss Steffani was giving the leaf dancers green eyelids and Mrs Axworthy was putting programmes on chairs. There was no sign of Mr Cunningham. I asked Mr Huff where he was. Mr Huff said he’d gone off to collect the Mayor.
Huh? The Mayor was coming? This was new.
‘I hear the Mayor’s coming,’ I said to Mrs Axworthy, on my way to the boy’s toilets where I would green up my face, pull on my cap of boughs, climb into my trunk, drape my material foliage and add my accessories of acorns, bird’s nest and wood pigeons.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Axworthy, with a funny little tight smile. ‘Mr Cunningham has friends in high places, it seems. The photographer from the newspaper’s coming, too.’
‘Golly,’ I said. ‘It had better be good then.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Axworthy, with a sigh. ‘Let us hope so.’
It wouldn’t be. We both knew that.
I decided not to tell Flora about the Mayor or the photographer. She was looking sick enough already. We didn’t get time to talk anyway. I had to tree up and she had to queue for green eyelids.