by Wesley Stace
“You’ll be Phil’s two p.m., will you? Upside?”
“Yes, we will. Sit down, George.” George hated when they pretended they called you by your Christian name.
“That your son, is it? That your dad?” she asked, idly flicking through the TV Times.
“No,” they both said at the same time, equally displeased at being familied.
“But this young man is the main part in our upcoming production,” said Bird in a stiff attempt at conversational bonhomie. He was unable to look straight at the receptionist. Bird fitted in perfectly at Upside, where everything was relic and ritual, but in the real world, the world of a theatrical costumier’s, he was as lifelike as a waxwork.
“I’ll just call through to Phil,” said the woman, who bellowed “Phil” at the top of her voice.
In came Phil, a hulk of a man in white overalls. “Another year, another production,” he said without enthusiasm. “No Mr. Allen?”
“No, he left us for pastures new. I’m doing the play this term.”
“Well, no harm, I suppose. And who’s this fella?” asked Phil, referring to George. “The new headmaster? Well, come through here and look. I’ve got them all laid out.”
The back room did at least appear more recognizably theatrical, with pictures of previous Romando-costumed productions on the walls and racks of costumes with scraps of paper pinned to them noting sizes and the plays for which they were intended. Bird had brought measurements with him and matched these to the various costumes, although Phil didn’t seem much bothered by the schoolteacher’s opinions: these were the costumes Upside would be getting whether it liked them or not.
Bird, in the awkwardness of negotiation, had forgotten George, who was following the haphazard timeline of photos around the wall. He always felt at home with old theatrical pictures and, sure enough, as he travelled back and forth among the overly made up and painfully smiling, through the seven ages of twentieth-century live entertainment, he saw a framed advertisement for Romando’s Theatrical Properties from the early 1940s, clipped from the pages of a magazine. It was a picture he knew well from the family scrapbooks. At the top it said, Romando’s: Fighting from the Front, and beneath this there was a picture of Joe King Fisher and his dummy, George’s namesake. Of course. Romando.
Bird and Phil were bickering over price and date.
“Never been any trouble before,” said Phil shirtily. “Mr. Allen always used to . . .”
“Excuse me,” said George. “This is the old Romando’s that makes ventriloquist figures.”
“Was.” Phil tutted at the interruption. “Was.”
“Ah,” said Bird, who thought he was being rather clever. “Yes. Look at that. That’s a picture of George’s grandfather.”
“Really? Oh, yes, he looks like him,” said Phil.
“Joe King Fisher,” said Bird. “A legend.”
“Oh, him,” said Phil, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “No, I meant he looks like the dummy. Just a joke, son, just a joke.”
“This where they made him, then?” asked George. “The one I look like.”
Phil sighed. “Yes and no. That was in the old place, before everything moved out here. Old Romando used to build all the ventriloquist stuff before the war — family business it was, all hand done, very nice, top-notch. Well, he died, his widow couldn’t keep it going, the son lost interest, and Romando’s was just going under when CoCo, the Costume Company, bought them out lock, stock, and barrel, everything, merged the two businesses, and moved them out here. Kept the old name, though. Your granddad, was he?”
“Yes, but I never knew him.”
“Well, that George was one of Romando’s.” Phil peered at the picture. “Yes, looks just like all the other ones we have. Got a room full of the things. No one wants them anymore. And they’re falling apart. Weren’t built to last.”
“He’s going strong. But he’s in a case in a museum.”
“The boy in the bubble, eh?” said Phil. “Bet he doesn’t say much in there.” George laughed. “So if that’s your grandfather, then your mum must be . . .”
“Frankie Fisher.” George beamed.
“Frankie! What a gal. Oh, I’m a great fan, a great fan. Frankie and I have worked together, oh yes. Now, let me see . . . Look!” Just behind one of the doors was a picture of George’s beautiful mother, in gala evening dress, signed: “Phil — I Should Coco! Your friend, Frankie.”
“Now, about the lion costume . . . ,” Bird put in twice before he was finally heard. He was mystified by the easygoing nature of George and Phil’s banter despite the great discrepancy in age and social status, and irked that the two of them could communicate so casually to his exclusion.
“There’s nothing wrong with this one!” said Phil. “It was quite all right last time.”
“I think we should have an allover costume,” said George, his only thought Fisher Major’s discomfort. “With the head totally covered. A really big frightening lion.”
“It’ll be hot in there,” said Bird.
“It’ll look fantastic,” said George, devil’s advocate.
“And you won’t be able to see his face,” said Bird.
“Saves acting.”
“I have the very thing,” said Phil. “From a musical of The Just So Stories, recently come down. You look at this.”
Where Bird had been unsuccessful, George, with constant reference to Frankie, was able to sweet-talk Phil into altering the costumes in time, mixing and matching in a way that had been expressly forbidden, and delivering them to the school. Bird should have been delighted, but he was in a foul mood on their return.
“Well, at least it’s going to look all right,” said George as he gazed out of the window. Bird didn’t answer.
At the end of the driveway, the moving van was gone. Lights shone in the kitchen, and a pile of neatly broken-down boxes sat to the side of the front door.
The nearer they got to the first performance, the worse it was. The great director was now convinced he could play each part better than its current actor — if you did exactly as he showed you, no more and no less, then you were acting well. Certain things weren’t bad — not good, but not bad — yet Bird couldn’t leave well enough alone. He snidely referred to George as Gielgud and peppered his notes with unnecessary asides: “Your mother would be ashamed of you.” There were many ways George could improve. He wasn’t putting much into it, nor was he even particularly well cast for the part, but at least he had the basics covered — he knew his lines, he lifted one arm (as required) and faced forwards (his own idea) when he spoke, he projected. There were others in greater need of Bird’s master class.
George wrote to Frankie that he wanted to get out of Androcles. It was boring. She replied that his behaviour was unprofessional. He was a Fisher. It wasn’t only he who would be on that stage, but all Fishers before him: Frankie, Echo, Joe, Queenie, and even Vox. The show must go on. Besides, she couldn’t wait for his first starring role, and he couldn’t let her down. He loved it when she resorted to blackmail.
But George simply couldn’t picture himself walking onto the stage accompanied by nine-year-old James Pardew (in the role of Megaera, his wife). He didn’t know why, but he knew first night would never come.
Rehearsals became unbearable. His one solace was watching Fisher Major sweat and toil in his Just So costume, a fantastically heavy bodysuit of fur, done in bright African orange, with a generous autumn brown mane, its wearer further burdened by the mass of a fur mantlet and a tail that seemed weighted with lead. At its arrival, Fisher Major, ignorant of the indignities of the skin part, had thought himself rather superior for having such an elaborate costume. Bird sensibly considered it silly to dirty the suit during rehearsals, but George had managed to persuade him that there was an art to wearing the costume properly, that the other actors had to know what to expect, and that it would surely be worth an extra cleaning to have the boy playing Lion be as good a Lion as he could possibly be. So Fisher
huffed and puffed through every rehearsal — he had grown tired of his skin long before the other boys had even visited the under-matron to check that their fittings were acceptable — and his temper grew shorter as first night beckoned.
There was one other great advantage to the costume: Major’s face was totally covered. The first time George threw his voice into the lion suit was a success. While demonstrating how to salute and bow in the correct Roman manner, Bird had inadvertently knocked over his prop, a lectern. With everyone’s attention on this pratfall, George put his hand over his mouth, cackled, said, “Nice one!” and turned in shock to look at the lion suit. The room hushed, out of either respect for Fisher Major or fear of Bird’s reprisal.
“Thank you, Fisher Major,” the director said as calmly as he could. “That will be detention for you next week.”
“But . . . but . . . ,” came a muffled voice from the depths of the lion’s furry orange face, as the occupant tried unsuccessfully to remove his prosthetic head.
“Shut it!” said Burgh.
“But . . .” The lion scratched furiously, as though the costume were infested with nits.
“On all fours. And don’t you dare take that head off. You, Olivier. Wipe that smile off your face, and let’s move on to the final act.”
First night loomed. Even the weather boded ill. Winds whipped through Pope even though the windows, which rattled in their frames, were shut tight. As branches knocked to get in from the cold, George lay in bed, devising a way to combine all his talents for a truly remarkable coup de théâtre.
The following Thursday, his form was required to write their weekly history essay, without reference to textbooks.
“Library for you, then, Fisher?” said Hessenthal unexpectedly. George had started a trend where certain of the pupils disappeared to do their work in various corners of the school, converging back on the classroom with their finished essays when the bell went.
“All right,” said George, pleased to be saved the bother of asking. He went to the library, turned on the light, got out his playing cards, sat down at his usual desk, and, as per his usual routine, opened the lid. There, where only one hour before he had left his essay, was a note from the headmaster: “Do Not Pass GO! Do Not Collect 200 POUNDS! Straight to my study.”
George put his head in his hands and breathed as deeply as he could. What was the worst thing that could happen? What possible excuse did he have?
In his office, Hartley stood wreathed in his own emissions, his face reflected in the window behind the desk. He had his hands behind his back and was perfectly still. The atmosphere was oppressive, the study heavy with a fog that hovered in the dim light.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” asked the headmaster. One excuse was all George needed. One really good excuse. His grandmother’s death? Overwork because of the play? Bullying at the hands of Fisher Major? Homesickness? Don? Don! How low would he stoop? “Think carefully before you speak,” said Hartley. “Once more: what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Sorry.”
“A cheat never prospers.” Hartley turned around, his frame almost entirely obscured in the haze, so his face appeared disembodied. “When someone cheats, I am upset. First I am upset by my own bad judgement — perhaps he can’t cope with the demands, perhaps he never could, perhaps he’s simply not up to it.” George nodded, a lump in his throat. Hartley didn’t look him in the eyes. “But when someone cheats who I know can cope with the demands, who is up to it, then I look for another reason, and when I can’t find an obvious one, and if he can’t offer me one, I assume the worst — that he is doing it only because he can, that he is lazy, that he is destructive, that he is bad.” George was close to tears. There was steel in the certainty of Hartley’s conclusions. He pierced George with a gimlet eye. “If I ever catch you doing this, or hear of anything like it again . . . Do you understand?” George nodded. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He could barely get it out.
“OK.” Hartley exhaled and then sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. “Your history teacher wants you off the play . . .” Hartley left a gap here, but George knew too well to protest. “. . . but Mr. Burgh will say there’s no reason he and the school should be punished on your behalf, and he’ll be right. So, there is going to be a tug-of-war between Mr. Hessenthal and Mr. Burgh, with you in the middle. And I don’t know what the result will be. In the meanwhile, I have written a letter to your mother and grandmother. Here it sits on my desk, with a stamp, waiting to be sent. Do you see it?” George nodded. “Mark it and go.”
For the first time, first night seemed an unavoidable certainty. George expected Bird’s full support. If Hessenthal had his way, the play would have to be cancelled. No one else could play Androcles, let alone at such short notice, and the costumes were rented, the programmes copied. The show would now, he was sure, go on. And centre stage, George could win everyone over, even the headmaster.
But that afternoon, he arrived at the gym for the first costume rehearsal to find that Hessenthal had triumphed. Bird hadn’t stood up for George, as Hartley and George had assumed he would, for there was one person, and only one, who could step into the role at such short notice — Bird himself. It was the perfect excuse for Bird to put all that great rehearsal acting into use: fate had cast him in the part he had craved since his schooldays.
“Mr. Wilding will take the rehearsal tomorrow. I have to get myself fitted for a toga!” said Bird, his beady eyes dancing with happiness. No reason was given for the replacement of the leading man, and all eyes were on George, who burned with shame. If they were going to treat him like an outcast, he would behave like one. He had no reason to be at the rehearsal any longer, so he turned and left, the only thought in his mind to go and hide under the Ping-Pong table with a pack of cards.
“Hold on, Fisher,” said Bird, who, despite being atwitter with excitement, was trying to behave as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in a thirty-five-year-old man hijacking the main part of the school play. “There’s still something for you.” George turned around and took his hands out of his pockets. “I’m afraid that your namesake, the bigger Fisher, has developed a rather nasty skin complaint from the lion suit and is confined to the sanatorium, so we’re going to need someone to step into his paws, as it were. They’ve just disinfected the offending costume, so perhaps you could pop up to Matron and suit up, and we’ll go from my first entry.” George stared ahead. “Hurry up, boy, and don’t look so ungrateful. Mr. Hessenthal didn’t like the idea, but I persuaded him, so perhaps a little thanks are in order! Now, we’ll go back to the top, and I’m coming in over here. . . .”
George left the gym and walked up the back stairs to Matron. The show could rot in hell. There was absolutely no point in staying. He saw that now.
In Pope that night, everyone wanted to know what had happened. They knew nothing beyond the fact that after George had gone off to the library, Hessenthal had said, “And let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” George wouldn’t talk. They had only ever liked him when he was in trouble or when he had something they wanted.
The wind rattled the glass again, howling at the windows. In the middle of the night, they were woken up by a thunderous crash.
“What was that?” asked a sleepy voice.
“Wow!”
“Lightning?”
“Go to sleep.”
In the morning light, a throng of tartan dressing gowns crowded Pope’s windows. A tree had uprooted and fallen, smashing into the new assembly hall, demolishing the top of the one standing wall and taking with it much of the scaffolding, some of which had rolled as far as the driveway. What was left jutted out of the building like the teeth of a broken comb, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of the teetering wall fell, taking with it the whole facing side.
Serves them right, thought George. He had so far managed not to wear the lion suit: the material was so thick that it had taken an unearthly time to dry
after its disinfection. He had to find a way to get out of the skin part for good. What would Valentine Vox have done?
The wind was too dangerous for their morning walk. The headmaster was not at breakfast, nor were many of the teachers. Afterwards, George, under the pretence of wiping off the tables, waited till the dining room was empty and, seeing Hartley and the crowd of teachers outside scrutinizing the ruin, walked into the headmaster’s office, picked up the telephone, and dialled. Queenie answered.
“Listen, it’s George,” he said in a rapid stage whisper.
“Georgie, darling, how are you? I was only saying . . .”
“No time. You know how you and Reg said you’d come and pick me up if I wanted? Tonight. Six p.m. End of the driveway.”
“George, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Six p.m. Tonight. End of the driveway.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Not as much as I’ll be in if you’re not there. OK?”
He put the phone down, picked up the headmaster’s letter, and left unnoticed.
Everyone was talking about the wall, the time, the upset, the cost. Teachers spoke of insurance and shoddy work; pupils of the noise, the excitement, the crash and the one that was bound to follow. First the builders were coming, then it was the fire department, then the army. At a hastily convened assembly, Hartley announced that no one was allowed within fifty feet of the new development. George didn’t hear this. He wasn’t there.
He’d left by the front door and sprinted towards the disaster area. It was one of those days when an umbrella could carry you off into the distance; the wall that remained rocked uncertainly. The oak tree, the wriggling roots of which were raw and new where they had been wrenched from the ground, had fallen directly onto the top storey. If the tree fell farther — and there could be no doubt that it would — the whole structure would collapse and the only option would be to demolish it and start construction again. George hurled one of the walkie-talkies as far into the centre of the crumbling ruin as he could and ran back into the school, just in time to merge unnoticed into a line of boys passing the changing room.