by Pamela Brown
“My what?”
“Your hair. The lot you had cut off.”
“It’s up in my wardrobe in a box. What do you want it for?”
“Sandra has an idea.”
A few moments later Mrs. Darwin descended carrying a little wooden casket. “Here it is. Next you’ll be wanting the hair off my head for that concert of yours.”
Sandra held up one black tress after another. “It’s lovely. You ought to grow your hair, Lyn. But don’t you see my idea? This is just the colour of Nigel’s hair, and if I wash it and comb it and fix it on to a length of black tape, we can clip it on to his hair with slides.”
“Good idea, but won’t he hate it? And what about a moustache?”
“There’s a lovely wooffly one in Mrs. Bell’s box. He ought to look too, too divine!”
And he did. Sandra insisted on having a dress parade at the hall, and they all put on their costumes for each item in turn, while she made copious lists of strings to be sewn on, tucks to be taken, and holes to be mended. Lyn, in her Spanish dress, looked a picture of exotic beauty with her black hair built up at the back of her head, scarlet lips and cheeks, and her eyes, already striking, heavily mascara’d. Sandra also practised the make-up, using ordinary cosmetics scrounged from their mothers.
As they had no footlights, Sandra considered grease paint unnecessary, except for the muleteers, who appeared in a healthy tan.
The dresses for Spanish Inn were a success, and had cost nothing at all. The girls had begged old dance frocks from their aunts and mothers, and trimmed them with zigzag frills; their velvet bodices were found in Mrs. Bell’s box, where they belonged to Dutch costumes; Sandra had embroidered these with bright silks. Vicky, whose father had been in India during the war, produced three fine lacy silk shawls bought in Calcutta; one was white, one blue and one orange. They draped these shawls over combs Sandra had cunningly contrived from cardboard, to hang loosely round their shoulders.
The boys wore tight-fitting black or navy blue slacks that were full just above the ankle; the girls had supplied them with string beach sandals, except Nigel, who took eights in shoes, and had to have some specially manufactured from cardboard and raffia. The wardrobe mistress had made them embroidered boleros, and in Mrs. Bell’s box they found a silk Russian shirt with a high neck line and full baggy sleeves caught in at the wrists. This fitted Jeremy perfectly, but he refused to wear it, as it impeded his playing the violin; so Nigel, on whom it was slightly tight, had to wear it. Jeremy wore a silk blouse of his mother’s with slightly full sleeves, and Maddy and Bulldog had to be content with school blouses turned back to front, with more embroidery. The muleteers’ hats were the real masterpiece. Sandra had bought some black, shiny paper, glued it on cardboard, and made broad-brimmed toreador hats. Black cloaks, lined with the brightest lengths of material to be found, completed their outfit.
For With Madame Popoffski the costumes were most outlandish. Vicky had found three of her discarded ballet dresses that the boys could squeeze into, and they wore old gym shoes with the insteps removed and ribbons attached and tied round their ankles. Large white bows adorned their hair, which was parted in the middle and fluffed out for the occasion. The final result, when cheeks were rouged to look rosy, and lips painted into cupid’s bows, was devastating. Sandra, as the pianist, wore an Edwardian dress in an offensive sandy check, with leg o’ mutton sleeves and a high collar; her hair was drawn back into a straggling bun, and she wore large horn-rimmed spectacles. Madame Popoffski had an ashen face, scarlet lips, and her hair drawn back in the ballerina style. Lyn had practised a broken accent until she found herself using it at school, to her mistresses’ amazement. She wore a peculiar green garment reaching to her ankles, a cross between a dressing-gown and a surplice. Maddy’s outfit was the sanest, and she made a ridiculously small nurse for her elephantine charges. When they had all got into these clothes and seen the effect, they roared with hysterical laughter.
“Oh, you don’t know what you look like,” gurgled Vicky, as her twin did a series of eccentric arabesques round the hall. When they had recovered they returned again to their separate sides of the dressing-room curtain and put on their clothes for Red as the Rose.
Nigel asked, “I suppose you haven’t got any hair for me, Sandra? It doesn’t really matter if you haven’t; I’d much rather go without.”
But Sandra said mysteriously, “Aha, you shall see what you shall see! May I come through?”
“No, Bulldog is in his pants.”
“Hurry up, Bulldog, and don’t forget your doublet goes on before your breeches.”
“You can come through now.”
Sandra said, “Close your eyes.” And when Nigel had done so she fixed on his curly hair, and holding the mirror in front of him said, “Open them.”
“What an idiot I look!” grumbled Nigel ungratefully, gazing at his reflection, then, seeing her face fall, added, “But it’s a jolly good idea. Now the moustache.”
He smeared gum on his upper lip, and adjusted the coal-black moustache.
“You look a very noble creature!” Sandra complimented him.
“Now let me make your eyebrows more bushy.” She ruffled them up and painted them with mascara. “Now frown.” He did so and she painted in the furrows with a moistened black pencil. “You look more elderly now.”
He put on his broad, plume-bedecked hat and made a sweeping bow.
“How do I look, mistress mine?”
“Fine, husband; but take off your hat when you bow. Now I must go and dress Lyn.”
In a few minutes the heroine was wearing her demure pink fichu’d dress, and a hat decked with flowers.
“Don’t forget to curl your hair up every night,” Sandra reminded her, “between now and the concert, will you?”
“Don’t be silly. How can I have curly hair in the last item if I have to have it sleek in the one before?”
The wardrobe mistress frowned. “That’s a teaser.” She pondered. “Don’t bother to curl it, then. I’ll just have to twist it in ringlets as best I can.”
“And curls don’t suit me. They make me look like a factory girl.”
Maddy and Bulldog appeared, looking very military in aluminium-painted cardboard armour. They carried their helmets in their hands, as they looked rather peculiar when worn. Their pikes were curtain rods with silver-paper heads. Jeremy, wearing his gardener clothes, brown breeches, shirt, and hose and an old flat straw hat, managed to look very attractive, and when he put on his armour Lyn said his dashing appearance made her feel quite jittery. His dress for the last act, when he arrived in Holland, was the same black cloak as he wore in Spanish Inn, with a slouch hat. Lyn wore a more sober dress of mauve silk.
In the last act Maddy was the little Dutch servant, and wore the complete outfit from Mrs. Bell’s box. Sandra wore grey all the time, and Vicky, as Lyn’s maid, had a neat black and green dress, also found in the invaluable box.
“Sandra,” said Nigel, as she made more lists, “you’re a witch with clothes. How much has this all cost?”
She counted up on her fingers.
“Three-and-six for Lyn’s dress. I got the skirts from old ones of Mummy’s, but they had to have new tops. Sixpence for the aluminium paint. I diluted it so that the armour wouldn’t look too new, and a shilling for the black paper for the hats. That’s five shillings.”
“Jolly good, my girl. You’re the soul of thrift and prosperity.”
“I shall be the soul of bad temper when I start to do all the little alterations on the list.”
“You see that the other girls help you. Vicky is quite capable of sewing on buttons, but she hates it.”
“Oh, I quite like it, really,” replied Sandra good-naturedly; “and I must remember to iron the clothes before the dress rehearsal, and before the actual night. That means there must be one free night between them.”
“Yes, definitely there must. There are sure to be tons of last-minute jobs to be done. Listen, everyone,�
� Nigel yelled, to be heard above the noise in the dressing-room. “Today is Friday; tomorrow, Saturday, we do it to Mrs. Bell and the vicar. They must approve. On Monday we go to the printers and get the programmes done; on Wednesday we have a rehearsal—”
“Property rehearsal,” put in Lyn.
“And on Saturday another rehearsal—”
“For words and acting,” announced the producer.
“On the next Tuesday is the dress rehearsal, and the Thursday is—”
“The concert!” they yelled in varying pitches of excitement.
“Suit you?” asked Nigel.
“Fine!” they answered, struggling into their everyday clothes.
The next day they performed to their audience of two, and it was the best performance they had yet given. The only fault that the vicar could find was that the waits in between were too long. They got excited and lost their clothes, and while Sandra was endeavouring to dress herself they would shout, “Sandra, where are my shoes?” “Have you got my clips, or have I, Sandra?” until the poor wardrobe mistress was frenzied. At the end the dressing-rooms looked like two badly kept second-hand shops.
“This can’t go on,” Sandra told them sternly. “Look at your lovely pink dress, Lyn, thrown on the floor like a dish-cloth; and, oh dear, this looks bad – here’s Nigel’s moustache all muddled up in it.”
“I’ve torn my Spanish dress,” confessed Vicky sadly, “but it’s only a seam.”
Sandra had to make another list of things to be done before the dress rehearsal. When they were dressed they went to hear the vicar’s verdict. The vicar approved.
“Well, young people, I must say I’m proud of you. It’s a very good show, and you have made it funny without vulgarity, gay without rowdiness, and sad without sentimentality. An excellent entertainment. Excellent.”
“It’ll be all right for us to give it on Thursday week, sir?” asked Nigel. “You’re free, I hope, that night?”
The vicar looked through his diary and said he was.
“And to what charity shall we give the collection?” Sandra wanted to know.
“You are having a collection, not admission tickets, I understand?”
“That’s right, vicar.”
“You see, someone might put five pounds in a collection, but tickets would only cost sixpence,” explained Maddy.
“But, on the other hand,” the vicar laughed, “there are people who will put in a halfpenny.”
“Or a button,” suggested Bulldog.
“You would be well advised to pass round a plate, to avoid that, not a bag,” said Mrs. Bell. “Who will you have to pass them? Some of your friends?”
“I should think two of our fathers would.”
The vicar suggested the organ fund as being the most deserving cause in the parish.
“And who is seeing to the curtains?”
“Our fathers are,” said Lyn firmly. “We’re not having outsiders back-stage; they’d put us off.”
“And will you need help in the dressing-room?” offered Mrs. Bell.
“No, I think I can manage, thank you,” replied Sandra, although she knew it would be a terrific tax upon her temper and patience.
“Well, good-night and good luck, and we’ll be here on Thursday week.”
When they were gone the children walked slowly back to the dressing-room and faced the disorder therein.
At the printer’s Nigel asked: “How much would you charge to print a hundred and fifty copies of this programme?” He handed over a sheet of paper. It read:
THE BLUE DOOR THEATRE COMPANY
NIGEL, VICTORIA, AND PERCY HALFORD;
SANDRA AND MADELAINE FAYNE;
AND LYNETTE AND JEREMY DARWIN
invite you to an entertainment in aid of St. Michael’s Organ Fund. Come and bring your friends to the Blue Door Theatre, Pleasant Street, at 7 o’clock, Thursday, July 28th.
The programme will be as follows:–
SPANISH INN
A Musical Play in one act, written and produced by Jeremy Darwin.
SCENE: The garden of an inn in Spain.
Interval
WITH MADAME POPOFFSKI
A sketch in one act, written by the entire company, and produced by Lynette Darwin.
SCENE: A Dancing School.
A Toe Dance by Victoria Halford.
RED AS THE ROSE
A three-act drama, written by the entire company, and produced by Lynette Darwin.
ACT I: The garden of Sir William Whitney’s mansion.
ACT II: The drawing-room of Sir William’s mansion.
An afternoon three months later.
ACT III: SCENE 1 : The same, next morning.
SCENE 2 : A cottage in Rotterdam, evening.
There will be a collection during the interval.
Costumes: Sandra Fayne.
Scenery: Nigel Halford.
Lighting: Percy Halford.
The girl looked at it doubtfully. “It’s rather long, but we could cyclo-print a hundred and fifty for six shillings.”
“Thank you. That will be fine. When will they be ready?”
“Tomorrow, or the day after.”
That evening they made a list of people to whom they must send invitations.
“Now, what about old Miss Jones?” asked Lyn.
“No, she wouldn’t approve of some of the jokes in Madame Popoffski.”
“But she’d love Red as the Rose. I’m sure she’s romantic at heart.”
“O.K. We’ll invite her. Now what about our various maids? Had they better come?”
“If our Bertha comes she’ll want to bring her young man.”
“Oh, he can come.”
“And don’t forget all the Sunday School teachers,” Jeremy reminded her.
And so it went on. Lyn and Sandra had invited all their form from school, and there were numerous friends of their parents to be invited. When they counted up they found two-hundred-and-nine names, and instead of cutting down the list, they decided to send one programme between two people, where this was possible. As the programmes were ready by Tuesday, they spent the evening on their bicycles delivering them, and there were many houses in Fenchester that evening in which somebody exclaimed, “Just look at this, ‘The Blue Door Theatre’. Have you ever heard of it before? Why, it’s from those Darwin (or Fayne) children. We must go and see this.”
In the children’s homes there was great perturbation. Their parents were beginning to realize that the impossible idea of the past months had taken concrete shape. Mrs. Fayne talked to Mrs. Darwin over the fence.
“Well, what do you think about this concert affair?”
“Frankly, I’m surprised. I didn’t think they had such sticking power. They’re working far too hard.”
“I know. Sandra’s been up till ten o’clock every night this week over the costumes. Do you think their school-work is suffering?”
“Jeremy’s exam results were awful. But there, I’m afraid they always are, because he’s so lazy. He’ll only work at things he likes. I can’t really grumble, because he got honours in his last music exam.”
“Sandra’s results weren’t quite as good as usual, and she’s got her School Certificate to take in two years’ time.”
“Same for Jeremy; and I think Nigel takes his next year.”
“He’s a nice boy, I always think; so gentlemanly.”
“It’s he that’s kept them up to scratch, I think, and Mrs. Bell, of course. She told me at church last night that they’ve got up a very nice little show.”
“I suppose you’ve seen the programme? It makes me laugh, the serious way they’re taking it.”
“Do you know they’ve invited over two hundred people?”
“No! Supposing something goes wrong!”
Mrs. Fayne’s gentle face was horrified, but Mrs. Darwin shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, it’ll be their own fault. I told them at first it was too big an undertaking. Just fancy, a theatre of thei
r own! I’m sure it’s in a filthy condition.”
“I shall feel terrible on the night, won’t you? Just as bad as if I were running it.”
“I offered Lyn my help behind scenes, but she thanked me politely by saying that no outsiders were to be allowed behind.”
Mrs. Fayne laughed. “They’re rather sweet, aren’t they? Well, I’ve got some meat cooking, so I’d better go in. If I don’t see you again before the concert, will you call for me? Then we can go together?”
“And watch our infant prodigies disporting themselves.”
When the infant prodigies returned from school that day they went down to the theatre laden with properties. Nigel carried a rustic chair for the arbour scene in Red as the Rose, Jeremy a card table that was to be draped to cover its modernity for the drawing-room scene. Sandra had several carefully ironed dresses over her arm to prevent them from being crushed, and Maddy had a large case containing crockery, and held in her other hand a tin of raspberries. When Bulldog first saw this he gaped. “What are the raspberries for?”
“Wine, scarlet wine; alcoholic liquor, of course,” answered Jeremy.
“What a good idea. I adore tinned raspberry juice.”
But he was damped when Nigel said, “We shall use water for the rehearsals.”
On their way to the theatre, which they made through all possible back streets to avoid the amused and curious glances of passers-by, they noticed an antique shop. Maddy could not resist second-hand goods of any kind; she was sensitive to smells, and fascinated by the fusty, mysterious odour that hung about Smallgood and Whittlecock’s. She fell behind the others and gazed into the dark interior. It was then that she saw the spinning-wheel. It was small and made of dark brown wood with a scrolled stand. She put out her hand and touched it; the wheel turned slowly and silently.
“Sandra,” she yelled, “come here!”
Sandra walked back to her. “Do come on,” she scolded. “You’re always bringing up the rear.”
“But do look!” urged Maddy. “Do you think Mummy would let me have a spinning-wheel?”