The Swish of the Curtain

by Pamela Brown

  “Nonsense. The one I’ve got is quite all right.”

  “Oh no, it’s not,” Lyn joined in. “It’s foul.”

  If Sandra had a fault as a wardrobe mistress it was that she would not spend enough time, trouble, or money on her own costumes, however hard she worked on other people’s.

  “Look here,” pursued Lyn, “one thinks of a marvellous ball dress the moment Cinderella is mentioned, and here you are trying to be Cinderella in a dress that your mother wore to dances in the twenties, with a few frills on the bottom. It’s ridiculous. This afternoon you’re coming into town and we’ll buy some cheap but exciting stuff, and I’ll jolly well force you to make yourself a dress.”

  When Lyn’s mind was made up on a subject it was impossible for Sandra to hold out, and by the time Maddy’s case was packed safely Sandra had meekly acquiesced.

  The fitting was postponed until the evening, and Vicky, Lyn, and Sandra sallied forth into the town, where nearly the whole population seemed to be doing their Christmas shopping. Maddy had decided to go down to the theatre with the boys and help with the electric lights.

  “I’m afraid my presents aren’t receiving much attention this year,” said Sandra, as they elbowed their way round Marks and Spencer’s. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but the pantomime. I don’t even know what I’m going to give whom.”

  “I’m going to do all mine on Christmas Eve,” said Lyn. “Come with me? I adore Christmas Eve in the town. I wish it would snow. Remember last year?”

  “Gosh, yes!”

  When they had some safety pins, a precaution for the dressing-room which Sandra never forgot, they went into a drapery store at the end of the town near the river, where everything was much cheaper. There they asked to see some materials suitable for a party frock, and spent a quarter of an hour inspecting bales of all kinds of light and silky materials, but could see nothing that would be suitable. Then Sandra caught sight of some material at the back of a shelf. She pointed at it.

  “I’d like to see that, please.”

  “But, miss, that’s the kind that we sell for linings,” objected the draper, wooffling his moustache.

  “I’d like to look at it,” repeated Sandra, and he brought it down.

  She fingered it, looked at it from a distance, and then held it up to the light. It was very thin and coarse, but had the silvery sheen so often seen in linings.

  “I’ll have as much of this as I can for ten shillings,” Sandra told him.

  “But this stuff is only one-and-two a yard, and there is no wear in it.”

  Sandra insisted that she wanted ten shillings’ worth of it. The draper stroked his moustache thoughtfully, then said he would let her have ten yards for eleven shillings. They made up the extra shilling themselves. When they were outside again Lyn said doubtfully, “Do you think it was wise to get such poor stuff?”

  “Yes. Very wise. You see, if I’d got good stuff I’d have only got about five yards, and then the skirt wouldn’t have been full enough, and I might just as well have worn the old floral dress of Mummy’s.”

  The other two were not reassured until the next day. The fitting had once more been postponed so that Sandra could finish the frock. On the way to the theatre for the fitting she seemed very excited but would say nothing about it.

  When they got inside she turned to Bulldog. “Would you put on the spotlight, please.”

  Bulldog had rigged up at the back of the hall a rather amateurish spotlight, which was to be used mainly for the transformation scene, and at Sandra’s request he fiddled about with it until the white glare was directed on to the stage. Sandra had gone into the dressing-room and locked the door. The others tapdanced on the bare boards at the back of the hall until they heard the dressing-room door unlocked. Then they looked up.

  Sandra stood in the arc of light in a ravishing dress of silvery-blue. It had a low square neck bound with bright blue velvet and enormous puff sleeves. The bodice was tight-fitting and unobtrusive, but the skirt – they could not believe their eyes! Although prepared for a full skirt, they were astounded at this cloud of shimmering silk that seemed to fill the entire stage. Sandra, smiling excitedly, made a low curtsey, and the skirt fell like a lake around her.

  “Do you like it?” she asked at length.

  They found their voices, and told her how ravishing she looked.

  “And you really made it all yourself last night and this afternoon?” Vicky asked incredulously.

  “Yes; it was simple as anything, and you should see how dreadful it looks in daylight! All anaemic and uninteresting. It’s the electric light that does it,” explained Sandra.

  “But how have you made it stand out like that?” Lyn wanted to know.

  Sandra lifted the skirt and revealed a white petticoat around which were stitched hoops of wire.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” she quoted.

  “You’re a wonder,” Jeremy told her. “And now let’s see how our wigs are getting on.”

  The Ugly Sisters had decided that their own hair was not humorous enough, and so they evolved two wigs from papier-mâché. Bulldog had used some of Mrs. Darwin’s hair, and twisted it up into a bun on top of the wig, so that when he wore it Maddy told him he looked like a cottage loaf. Jeremy had untwisted a length of rope, brushed and combed the flax until it was pliable, and then stuck it along the papier-mâché base at each side of a parting. They tried them on, and tested them to see that they were safe by standing on their heads; then Sandra began the make-up. By the time she had finished they looked two such remarkable creatures that the others were rolling about, helpless with laughter.

  “Oh, Sandra,” moaned Maddy, “if only you could make them look like that on the night!”

  The rest of the fitting seemed tame after these first costumes, and Lyn looked angrily at herself in the glass. She was wearing puffy red tights, green stockings, and short square jerkin, red sleeves and collar, and a pair of red tap-dancing shoes of Vicky’s. To her disgust she had got to dance, and Vicky said she had learned the dance jolly quickly, but she hated doing it. It made her feel uncomfortable and ridiculous, but she acted her part well, and always executed the dance in the snappy brisk way that she knew Buttons should. Frowning at her refection, she still gazed into the glass, a full length one, filched from the Corner House.

  Sandra, passing by, stopped and looked over her shoulder.

  “You look nice,” she said. “There’s something wrong, though. It’s your hair.”

  For the past six months Lyn had been growing her hair, and it had now reached her shoulders. She had got rid of her fringe, and wore her hair parted at the side. Sandra took hold of it on each side and brought it up level with her ears, then pulled out a few ends and held them up in a fringe.

  “That’s what you want, a fringe and shorter hair like you used to have it, level with your chin. It’ll make you look more masculine.”

  “O.K.,” Lyn sighed. “All these months I’ve been growing it, and now it’s got to be cut off. What a bore.”

  “The play’s the thing,” Sandra reminded her, a cliché that was constantly on Lyn’s lips.

  The next morning Lyn sat sadly in the hairdresser’s chair and watched the dark locks dropping on to the white robe, and then into a heap on the floor. When the fringe was cut and the assistant had finished telling her how sweet it looked, she sighed heavily, paid at the desk, and went out with a hood on her head to cover up the fact that she was a shorn lamb.

  Jeremy greeted her with, “That’s much better than a lot of bush all hanging round like you had before; you looked as if you’d no neck at all.”

  Mr. Darwin, who had been against her growing it in the first place, did not notice it until she drew his attention to it. Then he said paternally, “Now you look like my little girl again.”

  The rest of the Blue Doors had spent the morning on their bicycles delivering programmes of the pantomime. These were printed on pink paper, and had a pattern of Christmas trees o
n the front. The expense had been more than usual, but on account of the bishop’s donation they felt extravagant.

  “The Blue Door Theatre Company,” it read (and here was a list of their names), “present to you the pantomime of Cinderella. Come and bring your friends to the Blue Door Theatre, Pleasant Street, on December the 27th, at 7.30. There will be a collection in aid of St. Michael’s Organ Fund.”

  CHARACTERS

  Costumes: Sandra Fayne

  Lighting: Percy Halford

  Scenery: Nigel Halford

  Music: Jeremy Darwin

  Dialogue: Madelaine Fayne

  Dances: Victoria Halford

  Producer: Lynette Darwin

  ACT I, SCENE 1: Hairdressing Salon.

  SCENE 2: Kitchen.

  ACT II, SCENE 1: Ladies’ room at Castle.

  SCENE 2: Ballroom.

  ACT III, SCENE 1: Prince Charming’s room.

  SCENE 2: Kitchen.

  “Some programme,” remarked Lyn when she had read one through. “I hope the show will be as good as it sounds. Rehearsal this afternoon, remember.”

  They rehearsed solidly all that afternoon and evening, only stopping to dash home for a hasty tea, and all the morning and afternoon of Christmas Eve they were at the theatre.

  “Whatever is the use of having daughters,” grumbled their mothers, “if they don’t help with the mince pies?”

  On Christmas Eve the Blue Doors went into the town to do all their Christmas shopping in one go. It was very awkward when they wanted to buy presents for each other, but they came back laden with exciting-looking brown-paper parcels and full of the Christmas spirit.

  “Come into ‘ours’ and have some ginger wine,” the Halfords invited. They joined in a broadcast carol service, and drank the burning brown liquid that glinted against the firelight. Maddy, sitting on the hearthrug, lifted her glass. “Merry Christmas, everyone, and God bless us!”

  “We need it!” they responded. The raised glasses clinked together.

  The pantomime began with a fanfare of trumpets from a gramophone behind the stage, and the curtains parted. They had rigged up another curtain that cut off the front quarter of the stage from the rest. In front of this Maddy was standing in page’s uniform, made from an old red dressing-gown and the gold counterpane, previously used for the angel’s robe and the fairy’s dress. Her cheeks were puffed out at a tin trumpet, from which hung a banner embroidered with gold, a relic of Mrs. Bell’s box. Maddy lowered her bugle and spoke the prologue:

  “A story tonight we have to unfold

  Of a thrilling romance that happened of old.”

  The rest of the doggerel was an apology for their small cast and stage. It ended up:

  “We want to amuse you, dear people, and so

  I’ll blow my trumpet (she blew it) and ON WITH THE SHOW!”

  She drew across the curtains to show the scene behind it. Looking on their programmes the audience saw that it was meant to be a hairdressing salon. On the wall at the back was a large mirror, and on each side of the stage was a chair with its front to the wall, and what was meant to be a permanent-waving machine by each chair. Reflected in the mirror were the ridiculous faces of Bulldog and Jeremy as the Ugly Sisters. Their hair was done up in curlers on top and attached to the strands with string.

  “Oh, Vaselina,” moaned Iodina, “I’m so unhappy.”

  “Don’t be a silly little girlie,” reproved her elder sister. “Il faut souffrir pour être belle.”

  At the piano Nigel struck up a tune that Jeremy had composed, and they sang in reedy, melancholy voices:

  “We weren’t born lovely

  We know well,

  And il faut souffrir pour être belle,

  So that is why we go through hell,

  ’Cos il faut souffrir pour être belle.”

  Bulldog sang a verse alone, his face in the mirror more mournful than ever.

  “The assistant said

  When she looked at me,

  ‘Now, what’s wrong with you

  I can plainly see.

  I must get your face lifted,

  And massage your chest.’

  I answered her shyly,

  ‘I’m sure you know best.’

  With a pummel, a punch,

  A thud, and a smack,

  My chin was well lifted –

  But now it’s slipped back!”

  As he sang it he tucked in his chin so that there were rolls of fat over the stripey cape that was wrapped round him. They both sang the chorus, then Jeremy sang in a quavery, adenoidy voice:

  “I wasn’t half frightened

  Of coming today,

  And when I heard the assistant say,

  ‘You’re far too old

  To look demure,

  You need a sophisti-

  Cated coiffure.’

  I wondered whatever

  She meant to do,

  But she’s curled me up

  And left me to stew.”

  “Can you smell me scorching, Vaselina?” he wanted to know.

  Then they sang the chorus again, and more verses telling of their sufferings. Maddy, as the hairdresser, entered in a white overall and proceeded to comb and pin up their curls. When they took off their wraps they displayed antediluvian dresses of brilliant check. Iodina’s was so tight-fitting that she could hardly move, but Vaselina’s was full, and stuffed out to enormous proportions. The beauty specialist taught them some exercises to do for reducing. Iodina did them all backwards because she wanted to put on weight. They donned their hats and coats and Maddy drew the second curtain across, hiding the back portion of the stage. The Ugly Sisters, in front of the curtain, were discussing their chances of getting invitations to Prince Charming’s coming-of-age ball while the scenery was being changed.

  When the curtain was pulled for the second scene the audience gave a gasp of appreciation. Nigel’s kitchen scene was the best he had ever done. The backcloth was a panelled wall with plates standing on an immense dresser, and a curtained window. Up-stage was a table, and down-stage on the right a wooden settle, contrived of plywood and theatre chairs. They had arranged to have the fireplace off-stage, as Nigel did not feel capable of drawing a convincing fire, and did not approve of a torch covered with red paper.

  Full length on the settle lay Buttons asleep, snoring contentedly, a large apron over his red and green costume. Off-stage came the sound of Maddy’s trumpet and a vigorous bang. Buttons still snored.

  The banging and trumpeting went on, then Maddy walked in as Robin the page, and looked round the kitchen. Spotting Buttons, she went and stood over him angrily, hands on hips, then bent down and trumpeted in his ear. Buttons woke up slowly and inquired innocently, “Did you ring?” then, seeing who it was, cried, “Sorry, old man. I thought it was one of those old she-cats.”

  They had a long conversation about the tyrannies of the Ugly Sisters, and Buttons confessed that the only thing that kept him in the house was Cinderella. Just as Robin was about to go, he remembered what he had come for: to bring a letter from his employer, the prince, for the sisters. He handed over a large, important-looking envelope spattered with sealing-wax. Buttons held it up to the light and read aloud:

  “Prince Charming requests the pleasure of the company of Iodina and Vaselina at the Castle tonight for his coming-of-age ball. Dress will be worn.”

  “I should think so, too,” broke in Robin. “Two old hens like that!”

  At this moment someone was heard singing off-stage.

  “Sh!” Buttons warned Robin. “It’s Cinderella. Hide the invitation. She will be disappointed.”

  Cinderella, sweet and innocent in artistic green rags, entered trailing a birch broom.

  “Hullo. Why, it’s my little friend Robin. How are you getting on at the Castle?”

  Robin, with the invitation behind his back, answered, “Nicely, thank you: good food and cheerful company. I must say the prince treats us well.”

  “I think the pri
nce is a wonderful man.” Cinderella’s eyes shone, and she clasped her hands. “He’s so good and handsome, everyone loves him.”

  “Especially the ladies,” put in Robin. “He’s to choose a wife by midnight tonight, and everyone in the realm will be going to the ball in hopes of being his choice.”

  “I should love to go. Do you think I might get an invitation?” she asked wistfully. They surveyed their feet and made no reply. She sank on to the settle. “No, perhaps it’s no use hoping for one.”

  “Cinders,” faltered Robin, showing the envelope, “this is an invitation for your sisters – but not for you.”

  “Oh!”

  There was a miserable silence then Cinderella jumped up, forcing a smile.

  “Don’t let’s mope. We can have just as much fun in a kitchen as all the grand folks in a ballroom.”

  They linked arms and sang:

  ‘We can’t dress in silks and satins,

  For we haven’t got a sou,

  We can’t have champagne and oysters,

  Like all the grand folk do.

  But we like our steak and onions

  And a glass of lemonade,

  And tho’ we can’t waltz and veleta,

  Our dances are not a bit staid.”

  “O-oh, see me dance the polka,” carolled Buttons, whirling Cinderella round, and “Hands, knees, and boomps-a-daisy,” sang Robin, butting into Buttons and sending him flying. They linked arms and sang again:

  “We can’t go out to the theatre,

  We’ve never seen a play,

  But the threepenny seats in the pictures

  Are good enough any day.

  We can’t sing any grand opera,

  But all our songs have got swing.

  We like a little hot rhythm

  Better than anything.”

  Nigel struck up “Tiger Rag”, and they shouted it, stamping and clapping their hands. Suddenly the door burst open, and the Ugly Sisters sailed in. They stopped singing and Cinderella picked up her broom and began to sweep. Iodina and Vaselina stormed at them until Robin held out the invitation. They snatched it and hurriedly opened it. Vaselina looked at it, holding it upside down, and said, “Fancy that.”