A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

  George and Annette saw the selfie come up on Annette’s iPhone.

  ‘Hashtag Giving It My All? Hashtag My Arse,’ said Annette.

  Though of course, when Lauren came back into the room, everyone pretended they didn’t know what she’d been up to at all.

  During the tea break, Vince was straight outside for a cigarette. Bernie followed him.

  ‘I don’t know why she bothers,’ said Annette. ‘He’s a waste of space and he has about as much respect for her as he has for a pair of old slippers.’

  Kirsty tried to change the subject but Annette continued. ‘Bernie wants to ask herself what Vince is really up to when he says he’s at those dental conferences.’

  Annette nodded knowingly. Kirsty gave a little shrug.

  Annette seemed envious of Bernie. She was always quick to chip in with criticism when Bernie was on stage. She couched her comments in the spirit of, ‘I don’t want to cause offence but …’ She was also especially hard on Lauren.

  But then Lauren was no angel. Kirsty had heard her talking to Andrew Giggle earlier that afternoon. Lauren complained that, ‘It’s totally unrealistic that I’m the prince while she’s Cinderella. She’s way older than me for a start …’

  Kirsty was on a fast day when she heard that, so she couldn’t even eat a bloody great cake to console herself.

  But Lauren’s throwaway comment, so brief but so bitchy, was soon to fade into insignificance.

  In the last week of November, the main cast had their costume fittings.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The wardrobe was one of Kirsty’s favourite parts of the NEWTS’ theatre. It was right at the top of the building, reached via a dark staircase that put Kirsty in mind of the staircase to Sleeping Beauty’s tower in the Disney film she’d adored as a child. Climbing up there, you felt as though you were ascending into another realm; one where anything could happen. Where you could become someone else. No matter how long and hard they had been rehearsing, for most of the actors it was putting on a character’s clothes that really made the difference. That was when they started to feel as though they could convince an audience. And themselves.

  Bernie said the wardrobe reminded her of Mr Benn, a children’s series from her childhood, in which a mild-mannered city worker would drop into a fancy-dress shop as he wandered home from work. The shopkeeper, who wore a fez to denote his unlikely magical powers, would suggest an outfit. Mr Benn would try it on and suddenly find himself in a whole new world, fighting dragons in a suit of armour, caring for lions in his zookeeper’s uniform or floating through space in bubble helmet.

  Yes, the wardrobe was a magical kingdom. Even though it smelled like a particularly unsavoury charity shop.

  Unfortunately, the wardrobe was the domain of three witches far worse than anything in Macbeth; three indomitable women who had been in charge of the company’s costumes for as long as anyone could remember.

  When she was summoned, Kirsty knocked and waited to be asked inside. No one was supposed to go into Wardrobe without permission. There were real treasures in there if you knew what to look for. Genuine dresses from the fifties and forties that would fetch a fortune at a vintage store. Likewise, suits and hats and handbags. Rumour had it there was a genuine crocodile Birkin that would be worth several grand on eBay hidden away in one of the many cabinets, which were labelled in a cramped handwriting like medicines in an old-fashioned pharmacy. Kirsty longed to be able to rummage through the accessories cabinet.

  ‘Enter,’ said Sally in stentorian tones.

  Kirsty stepped inside making sure that the door closed, quietly, behind her.

  Sally, Angie and Debbie were sitting at the mending table. Sally was stitching sequins to chiffon. Angie was darning a hole in the elbow of an old sweater. Debbie was working on the crotch of a pair of men’s hose. Kirsty wondered if they were the trousers that were the subject of much hilarity on the last night of the company’s performance of Romeo and Juliet. Apparently Trevor Fernlea was mid sword-fight when the crotch went. There were rumours of sabotage. Of stitches unpicked.

  ‘So, you’re our Cinders,’ said Debbie, pushing her glasses to the end of her nose so that she could look over them to appraise her latest victim.

  ‘I told you,’ said Sally. ‘Twelve to fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ said Debbie.

  ‘Maybe even sixteen on the bottom half,’ Angie chipped in.

  ‘Twelve,’ said Kirsty, firmly.

  ‘Hmmm. Last time we did Cinderella, she was an eight to ten,’ said Sally. She sucked air in through her teeth. ‘This is going to be difficult.’

  Debbie put a finger to her lips and tapped them as though she was trying to think of a solution.

  ‘Double Spanx?’ she suggested.

  ‘I’m still here,’ Kirsty pointed out.

  ‘It makes our job much easier if characters stick to a standard size,’ said Debbie.

  ‘Indeed it does,’ said Angie.

  Sally got up from the table and went to the rails to bring out a costume. ‘This might do, if we take the collar off and stick some marabou around the hem. You’re tall, aren’t you?’ she added to Kirsty, as though that too was an issue.

  ‘I intend to lose three inches before the show,’ said Kirsty sarcastically. These women were making her itch. Or maybe that was the flea-bitten lamé dress Sally had thrust into her hands. It smelled musty and was distinctly yellow around the armpits. It was a far cry from the costumes she had worn on board The European Countess which were all made just for her.

  Still Kirsty put it on. The NEWTS didn’t have the funds for new costumes for every show. Kirsty understood that. But wearing the silver dress, which had possibly been quite avant garde in the 1980s but was definitely not fashionable now, she certainly didn’t feel like the Cinderella of her childhood dreams. Though, ironically, that Cinderella had probably worn something similar, given the era. Puff sleeves as big as her head.

  Reluctantly, Kirsty stepped out from behind the changing screen and allowed Sally, Angie and Debbie to make their appraisal. They didn’t hold back. It was worse than any audition Kirsty had ever attended. They circled her like a pack of hyenas waiting for their prey to tire and give in to their snapping jaws.

  ‘We’d need to let it out,’ said Debbie.

  ‘I’m not sure how much seam allowance we’ve got to work with,’ Angie complained

  ‘Double Spanx and a corset?’ said Sally.

  ‘At least.’ Debbie concurred.

  ‘I need to be able to breathe,’ Kirsty reminded them. ‘It’s pretty much a requirement for singing.’

  Despite the fact that it was obvious the dress would not close, Debbie gave one more tug on the zip anyway, succeeding only in pinching some of Kirsty’s skin between the teeth.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘You’ve broken the zip,’ said Debbie.

  ‘You’ve broken my skin,’ Kirsty retaliated.

  ‘No need to get tetchy. We’re only trying to make you look your best,’ Angie reminded her.

  ‘It might look better with the shoes,’ said Sally. ‘Where are they?’

  Debbie picked up a pair of silver court shoes – which were in fact white ballroom shoes, sprayed silver – that had been pulled out and put to one side for Kirsty’s fitting. Kirsty knew at once there was no chance she would be able to get them on. Hadn’t these three witches read any of the details Kirsty had filled out on their fitting form?

  ‘These are a size four,’ said Kirsty. ‘And I, obviously, am not. Because if I had size four feet,’ she added for what felt like the hundredth time, ‘I would fall over.’

  ‘What size are your feet?’ Debbie asked.

  ‘They’re 41.’

  ‘What’s that in English?’

  ‘It’s a seven and a half … Or an eight.’

  ‘I didn’t know ladies’ feet went that big,’ said Sally. ‘Have we got anything to fit her at all?’

  Angie consulted the plan on the desk, then
scuttled off to the deepest recesses of the attic room. Kirsty could hear her swearing as she pulled out a trunk. She dragged the trunk to where Kirsty stood.

  ‘In 1997 when we did It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum there was a scene in which all the soldiers dressed up as women to put on a show within the show. Do you remember, ladies?’ Angie asked her witchy colleagues.

  ‘I do,’ Sally said.

  ‘Oh, it was a good one,’ Debbie agreed. ‘Trevor Fernlea was brilliant as Bombardier Beaumont.’

  ‘This trunk should have those costumes in. And the shoes.’

  Angie got the filthy old trunk open, using a teaspoon as a jemmy. The catch had rusted shut.

  ‘Bingo,’ she said.

  All four reeled back as the trunk let out a gust of stale and ancient air. It was as if they’d opened the Ark of the Covenant.

  Angie pulled out a pair of golden shoes. A mouse had been nesting in the toes of the right foot. She banged the shoe on the table to dislodge the droppings.

  ‘I’ll use a pair of my own,’ said Kirsty.

  Most of the cast was on a tea break when Kirsty got back downstairs. Bernie was in the rehearsal room, trying to get to grips with her magic wand, which crackled and sparkled when she pressed a little button. It must have been obvious to her from the look on Kirsty’s face that the costume fitting had not gone entirely to plan.

  ‘I would rather have my toenails pulled out than go through that again. You should have seen what they tried to put me in. It was the very opposite of the scene where the Fairy Godmother gets Cinders ready for the ball. They made me look like a scarecrow. And feel like one.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of those old bags,’ said Bernie. ‘Bitching away like they’re Lagerfeld, Galliano and Chanel, when they’re really just a trio of middle-rate seamstresses who spend their days in a room that smells of mothballs and armpits. No wonder they’re sour. It’s all the camphor.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘The wardrobe department is shocking. I’ve known people get parts just because they’ve got the right shoes.’

  ‘Talking of shoes,’ said Jon, interrupting. ‘Did they find you something?’

  Kirsty winced as she remembered the men’s shoes with the mouse droppings. Maybe in a couple of years, it would make a good anecdote – Cinders, whose feet were so big she had to wear the Ugly Sisters’ clogs – but right now she was feeling a little bruised.

  ‘I’ve got a silver pair back at home,’ she said. ‘With a few of those stick-on jewels they’ll be all right.’

  ‘Didn’t they have anything for you at all?’ Jon persisted.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m all that keen on the idea of wearing shoes some other Cinders has sweated in.’

  She was too embarrassed to tell him the full and awful truth.

  He went off whistling ‘Your Feet’s Too Big’ all the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  So the NEWTS had adult costumes going back decades – the wardrobe was a vintage dealer’s dream come true – but when it came to the children, they were much less well equipped. That was because children seemed to be so much harder on the costumes than adults. They were always spilling things and splitting things and leaving things on the back of the bus on the way home from rehearsals. For that reason, when children were involved in a performance, the wardrobe crew did their best to outfit them in costumes that were cheap and easily replaced at the last minute.

  The panto mouse costume was a classic of the genre, consisting of a grey leotard over grey tights, accessorised with mouse ears of grey fabric stiffened with cardboard and tails made from thick pieces of string.

  When Thea came out of rehearsal with the list of costume requirements, however, Ben didn’t have a clue where to start. As Thea had stayed away from dance classes thus far in her little life, he had no idea where to buy a leotard. However, he was determined not to let Judy see another example of his incompetence. In the end, he bought one online and was feeling very proud of himself until it arrived and he discovered that he’d bought the wrong size. A woman’s size eight instead of age eight for a child. Judy came to the rescue, explaining that the school outfitter in town carried exactly what he was looking for and grey tights were available just about anywhere.

  ‘Who knew?’ said Ben.

  The ears were the real challenge. Judy helped out by buying the fabric that was required but it was down to Ben to assemble the headband with its big Minnie-style protuberances. The wardrobe ladies had helpfully given each child an A4 sheet with the ear ‘pattern’ printed onto it, but the accompanying instructions might as well have been written in Sanskrit for all the sense they made to Ben. As for the actual sewing, Ben calculated that the last time he had picked up a needle to do anything more complicated than stitch a loose button back onto a shirt was twenty-five years earlier at primary school. Ben and the rest of his class were given a crash course in sewing in order to make a purse for Mother’s Day. The project got quite complicated, as the children had to stitch their mother’s initials onto the front as a finishing touch.

  Judy still had the purse Ben made. She kept it in the top drawer of her dressing table and used it to keep spare buttons she thought might come in useful. When Ben told her that he had to sew Thea’s mouse ears, Judy got the purse out to remind him that, once upon a time, he’d been pretty nifty with his chain stitch. It was also her way of saying that Ben was on his own.

  And how hard could it be?

  Ben cut out the pattern and used it to create four grey pieces. But he didn’t place the pattern quite right on the fabric, so he only managed to get three and had to buy another piece of the grey material the next day.

  Sewing was more difficult than he remembered too. He kept pricking his finger but Judy’s thimble was too small. Getting the earpieces stitched together took hours. And then Ben realised that he should have put the cardboard stiffening into the ears before he closed up the edges, so he had to unstitch them and start again from scratch.

  By the time Ben finished, it was three in the morning. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he tiptoed into Thea’s room, where she slept with a copy of the Cinderella script beneath her pillow, and hung the newly made headdress from the end of her bedframe like a Christmas stocking. Maybe, Ben thought in a moment of fatigue-induced madness, that year he could make Thea a personalised stocking. He’d seen a pattern somewhere. In one of Judy’s magazines. Yes. It seemed like a good idea. They needed some new Christmas traditions. A handmade stocking would be a great place to start.

  At five past three, Ben flopped into bed with visions of sugarplums running through his head.

  Thea wore the mouse ears down to breakfast, which was when Ben discovered that though the ears were the same size and had been made with exactly the same kind of cardboard inner, one of them simply would not stand up. It didn’t seem to matter that it had been made in exactly the same way as the other. No matter what Ben did to try to fix the ear upright, it would droop forward over Thea’s eyes again.

  ‘There must be loads of mice with droopy ears in real life,’ said Ben.

  Though he knew as well as Thea did, that just wasn’t true. You saw rabbits with droopy ears. You saw dogs with droopy ears. Even the odd cat with a droopy ear. But a mouse? Never. It just didn’t seem to happen.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Dad,’ said Thea. ‘Someone at the NEWTS will know how to sort it out. You know, I really like it there. I’m glad I got a part.’

  That, at least, made the late-night sewing seem worthwhile.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  By this time, rehearsals for the main cast had moved from the rehearsal room to the stage itself, which was free again after the end of a highly successful run of Separate Tables. Though the cast of Cinderella had been practising the ‘blocking’ – how they would move around a scene – for weeks and seemed to have that down pat, everyone knew that to be on the actual stage would be very different. In the rehearsal room, the perimeters of the area the ac
tors had to play with were imaginary. Down on the stage they would have to deal with the curtains – or rather the tabs – all the backdrops, all the scenery, all the props.

  Two students from the local art college, who were using the project as part of their degree coursework, were creating the scenery for the production. They’d listened intently as Jon described the look and feel he wanted them to create. They nodded sagely when he referred to his favourite films and artists.

  ‘A cross between the underworld in Pan’s Labyrinth for the magic and Baz Luhrman’s Moulin Rouge for the colours,’ was the log line it all boiled down to. Looking at the sketches and collage they produced after their first meeting, Jon was confident that the art students would be able to translate his vision to the stage with no problem whatsoever.

  But so far, they had only created a backdrop for the ballroom scene that looked about as appealing as a bus station and one for the outdoor scenes that was uncannily similar to the bright-green world of the Telly Tubbies, complete with grinning flowers.

  ‘It will look different when the lighting’s been sorted out and it’s all covered in glitter,’ Kirsty promised when she saw how disappointed Jon was by the realisation of his careful brief.

  So. Back to the first rehearsal on stage. It was going pretty well. Kirsty was very pleased to be taking the performance to the boards at last. It suddenly felt much more real. She loved to stand in the actual wings as she waited for her cue. Though she had to try not to get distracted by the graffiti that had been scrawled onto the backs of old scenery panels. Some of it seemed to be in the same hand as the graffiti that had appeared on the cast list.

  It was a tight squeeze in the wings, filled as they were with the technical equipment that would create all the magical effects.

  ‘Don’t ever press those buttons,’ said Trevor Fernlea, as he and Kirsty waited to go on. He pointed to a small control box with two big red buttons marked Pyroflash.