by Pamela Brown
But the next lesson was more nerve-wracking. It was Shakespeare, taken by Mr. Whitfield, who went straight through the class, demanding a Shakespearean speech from every member.
The Blue Doors found themselves experiencing all the familiar symptoms of stage fright, a thumping heart, dry lips, a watery feeling in the knees. The first person to be called on was Otto Gottlieb. He did Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” with great drama of expression and gesture. The only drawback being that not one word was intelligible. The next person to be called on was Bulldog. He walked to the centre of the room, which suddenly seemed very large. When he turned round to face the class he noticed the horrified expressions of the Blue Doors. What could be wrong? Had he got a smut on his nose? He smoothed down his ginger hair self-consciously and began.
“Friends—Romans—countrymen…” Suddenly he saw Vicky double up with laughter, and he stopped dead, with a horrible realization. He was still clutching the parcel of porridge! Scarlet to the tips of his ears he stood rooted to the spot, looking at the disgusting soggy paper parcel. Then Sandra came to the rescue. She ran quickly across the floor, saying, “Give me the parcel, Bulldog.” He floundered through the speech, completely unnerved, and received merely a cold, “Thank you. Sit down” from Mr. Whitfield. The only person who received any praise from him was the ugly girl in slacks, who did a speech of Lady Macbeth, and curdled the blood of her listeners.
“Very strong—sincere, but lacking in technique,” was Wainwright Whitfield’s verdict.
Lunch was the next item on the time-table. It was served in a long cafeteria, where, over coffee and liver sausage, more words per minute were exchanged than the Blue Doors had ever heard before. They sat at a table together, and just stared round them dumbly. “They’re all so happy and self-assured,” thought Lynette. “I shall never be able to behave like that.”
Nigel was sitting at a long table with a lot of the senior pupils, and seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument. On the way out of the lunch-room he came over to their table with the chestnut girl. She was very tall and wore a scarlet jumper and emerald slacks. She stood with hands on hips and surveyed them, laughing.
“So these are the infant prodigies, are they?”
“This is Auriole,” announced Nigel. “She’s heard a lot about you.”
“Where’s Maddy?” she wanted to know. “I liked the sound of her best.”
“We had to leave Maddy at home,” explained Sandra. “She’s too young to come to Dramatic School yet.”
“What a shame! You’re her sister, aren’t you? And those are the twins, aren’t they? And that’s Lynette and Jeremy. I say, come here!” she cried to some of her friends.
“Come and look at Nigel’s private repertory company.” A crowd of seniors came and stared at them as if they were strange beasts. The Blue Doors glared back, and Auriole seemed to find their discomfort amusing. At last she took Nigel’s hand and led him away, saying, “Come on, ducky. I want to know your hopes, your dreams, and your telephone number.” When she had gone Lyn said, “She’s just what our parents hoped we wouldn’t turn into—”
“But rather attractive,” added Sandra fairly. They were all somewhat upset at seeing Nigel so firmly under the sway of what they considered “an outsider”.
The afternoon was taken up with a dancing class, in which Vicky outshone everyone. Very few had had any previous training except the two ex-chorus girls, and no-one as yet had the correct practice dresses or shoes. Bulldog, in his socks and shirt-sleeves, laboured away at the barre, puffing and blowing heavily, as the little dancing mistress prodded him in the back and knees with her ruler.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! All this to be an actor!” he groaned.
When the day was over they felt completely exhausted, and when Nigel joined them on the stairs saying, “How about a cup of tea at Raddler’s?” it sounded like a very good idea.
Raddler’s was a little baker’s shop in Tottenham Court Road that smelt of fresh bread and coffee. Its windows were packed with gaily coloured cakes. The first floor was filled with respectable business men having their afternoon tea, but as one ascended the stairs a peculiar noise wafted down from the second floor—a sort of muffled roar. The low, smoky room was dim and filled to overflowing with B.A.G.A. students. Sprawled across the tables, they drank coffee, consumed enormous doughnuts, and reformed the theatre. Fanny, the harassed little waitress, shouted down the hatch unceasing and gargantuan orders.
“Ten white, three black, and sixteen éclairs,” or, “Three ’ash and baked.”
Gradually the congenial atmosphere enveloped the Blue Doors and the constrained correctness that had hampered them all day fell away. Soon they were talking freely to all and sundry, telling of their past and planning for the future. The hours slipped by, and suddenly a completely strange boy came up to them and said, “There’s a free pass for twenty B.A.G.A. students tonight at the Coronet Cinema in Tottenham Court Road. Coming?”
“Rather!” they chorused. As they trouped down the road a barrel organ played “Over the Sea to Skye”, and the sadly sweet cadence filled Lynette with emotion. The cinema was tiny and uncomfortable, and showed foreign films that did not attract the public. But the Blue Doors sat enthralled at the acting of the French screen stars whom they had never seen before. “Gosh!” exclaimed Jeremy afterwards, “and we think we can act.”
Outside in the cold street they called goodnight to the other students, and Nigel said, “Come on, I know a good place for supper.”
In Fitzherbert Street they went into a Greek café opposite their digs and ate a delicious dish of meat balls speared on skewers, and spiced rice.
“Rather different from Mrs. Bosham’s cooking,” observed Nigel. “But we mustn’t do this every night. It’ll have to be the Corner House if you want your allowance to last the week.”
They were too tired to talk much, but sat smiling contentedly at each other, listening to the chatter of the Greek waiters, unwilling to return to their cabbage-smelling digs.
“Well,” said Nigel, with a proprietary air, “how do you think you’ll like the Academy?”
“Like it!” cried Lyn. “I love it already. I’d not have missed it for the world. This has been the happiest day of my life.” Nigel toasted her, raising his glass of water.
“And here’s to many more!”
2
SPRING TERM
“So much to learn, and so little time to learn it in,” sighed Lynette, stretching and yawning on her bed. The five of them were gathered in the girls’ bedroom as it was the largest, doing their evening study. Although the room was big, very little of it could be seen, for it was snowed under with books and gramophone records. The ugly wallpaper was nearly covered with ballet pictures by Degas belonging to Vicky and photos of film stars belonging to Sandra, and the mantelpiece had been turned into what they called “Lynette’s Shrine”. There were three photos, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, and Sarah Bernhardt, and two books, a volume of Shakespeare and Stanislavsky’s An Actor Prepares. On each end of the shelf burned a twisty red candle in a brass candlestick, throwing shadows on to the faces of the Blue Doors as they bent over their books.
It was the fifth week of term, and all were endeavouring to master their lines for the end of term shows. Not only were they doing a complete production of Pygmalion with two casts, but also some Shakespearean scenes produced by Mr. Whitfield, and a Molière comedy in the French acting class. Nearly every night there was a fresh speech to be learned for the diction, voice-production, or verse-speaking class next day. Bulldog interrupted the low murmur of voices.
“Will you listen to my mime, for a minute?”
“How can we listen to your mime?” mocked Lynette. “O.K. Go ahead.”
Bulldog got up, made a gesture of opening a door, stepped in, stood still, bent his knees slightly, then straightened them, stood blank-faced, bent his knees once more, opened the imaginary door, and stepped out.
“What on earth…�
� they laughed.
“Bulldog, you are a fool! Whatever is it?”
“Going up in a lift,” announced Bulldog proudly. “Now, what’s this?” He repeated exactly the same movements.
“Going up in a lift!” they shouted.
“You’re wrong,” he grinned. “I was going down that time.”
Lynette hurled a cushion at his head.
At this moment the clock struck nine and Mrs. Bosham shouted up the stairs, “Y’r supper’s on.” There was a stampede down for the rather watery macaroni cheese and college pudding that Mrs. Bosham served up regularly on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
“Is Mr. Nigel in?” she asked, as she entered the dining room.
“Er—no,” said Sandra, “I shouldn’t bother to keep his hot. He probably won’t appear.”
“Well, I never!” she cried, her eyes like saucers. “He is a one, isn’t he? (Would you mind kindly stepping off my ball of wool, Mr. Bulldog.) Never used to be like this, you know. First term he was here, he was up in his room every night, rantin’ and shoutin’ like one o’clock.”
“The old ham,” murmured Jeremy.
“Hasn’t paid ’is rent this week, either,” Mrs. Bosham replied, somewhat meaningly.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Vicky. “I suppose I’ll have to pay it again.” She opened her handbag and took out the money.
“Well, thank you, Miss Vicky. Don’t like to have it hanging over, y’know.” After she had waddled out Vicky said, “Whatever does Nigel do with his money? He gets a bigger allowance than we do, anyhow.”
“What does he do with it? I should think it’s perfectly obvious what he does with it,” Lyn said coldly. “He spends it all on that Auriole creature. He’s out with her every night.”
“But surely,” objected Vicky, “she wouldn’t let him pay for her when they go out? I mean—no-one at the Academy ever does. It’s always Dutch treat.”
“H’m!” growled Lynette. “Not with Auriole. She was boasting in the girls’ dressing-room the other day that a Guards officer spent his month’s pay in two evenings taking her out, so she must be going through Nigel’s allowance like water.”
“I tried to talk to him about it the other day,” put in Jeremy, “but he wouldn’t listen. Said he wasn’t ‘gadding about’, he was merely doing what old Whitfield is always advising—seeing as many plays as possible.”
But there are ways and ways of seeing plays,” observed Sandra. “We’ve been to the theatre every Saturday this term, but we’ve stuck to the gallery, consequently we can pay our rent.”
“And our theatre-going doesn’t include an expensive meal afterwards, and dancing until all hours in some low dive,” added Lynette acidly.
“Sometimes,” Bulldog began timidly, “I wonder if we don’t work a little too hard. It doesn’t look as if it’s getting us anywhere.” They reflected for a minute. Certainly they had as yet made very little impression at the Academy. There seemed to be so many things to unlearn first.
“And they say that Nigel’s student production is terrific,” Bulldog went on.
The senior pupils were all allowed to do one act of a play every term, produced by one of themselves, and this time the honour had fallen to Nigel.
“He only chose Macbeth so that Auriole could play Lady Macbeth. I think she’s rotten,” stated Lynette.
“This is Friday night’s college pudding warmed up,” Bulldog suddenly announced.
“How do you know?”
“Because it has the same funny taste.”
“But it always tastes funny.”
“Yes, but this is the same funny taste as on Friday—not a different one.”
“Oh, let’s fill up on bread and cheese.”
“And pickled onions,” said Bulldog, grabbing the bottle.
“What low tastes!” sighed Jeremy, getting up from the table. “Oh, if only there were a piano!” This was his one complaint. In order to practise he had to get up early and go round to the Academy.
“Who’s coming out for a toddle before bed?” inquired Bulldog. They all set out, muffled up to the ears against the biting February wind, and strode through Regent’s Park, where frost and moonlight were silvering the trees.
“How different this life is from school!” said Lyn, after an argument on voice-production. “Can you imagine us going for a walk after we’d done our homework and arguing about long division or the rivers of Europe?”
“No,” laughed Sandra. “Our conversation was exactly the same in those days as it is now—theatre!”
It was true. They talked, lived, and dreamed theatre. They forgot to look at the newspaper, they had no hobbies, they met no-one who was outside the magic circle. At No. 37, over the lunch table at the Academy, in Raddler’s Café at tea, over snacks in the Corner House, they spoke of nothing else. But their own particular problems depressed them at times.
“Why isn’t sincerity enough?” Lynette would demand. “Everyone talks about technique all the time—but what is it? Nobody ever defines it properly.”
“P’raps it’s really experience, and that’s why we haven’t got it.”
“And by the time we’ve gained experience and technique we shall be too old to play all the lovely young parts that there are.”
“Oh, I know. Let’s play the new game.”
This game consisted of stating what part in what play at which theatre they would like to be performing that night. Vicky plumped for “Peter Pan” at the Winter Garden; Sandra for “Candida” at the Phoenix; Lynette for “Desdemona” in Othello at the New; Bulldog for “Falstaff” in The Merry Wives of Windsor at the Haymarket; and Jeremy for “Hamlet” at the St. James. This game made them walk much farther than they had intended, and it was midnight when they returned. Nigel was still out. “He’ll be late for the Academy again in the morning,” sighed Sandra. “Can’t you talk to him, Vicky? He’s your brother.”
“‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’” quoted Vicky. “I’ll say he needs one.”
They went to bed and their dreams were of diverse things, from learning how to control the diaphragm muscles, to the sound of an orchestra tuning up for the overture.
Next day at prayers Mr. Whitfield announced, “There is to be a new competition this term. One of the governors has offered a prize for scenic design. The subject is James Elroy Flecker’s Hassan. Only one set is wanted. It must be to scale, and must fit the model theatre in the workshop.” The Blue Doors looked at each other.
“Sounds like Nigel’s cup of tea,” whispered Sandra to Lyn.
“You’re telling me! He could win that with one hand tied behind his back.”
“The work is to be done in spare time, not in Academy hours, but the workshop will be open in the evenings for this purpose. Will those who wish to enter give in their names to Miss Smith afterwards.” Bulldog peered round the theatre for Nigel, but he was not present.
“Looks as if he’s late again,” he muttered. “We must make him give in his name.”
“And Hassan too! A wonderful subject,” enthused Lyn. “We just can’t go home these holidays with not one of us having won anything. And it’s quite obvious that none of us five will.”
Sometimes Lyn despaired of ever learning to act. There was so much to remember all the time. If she tried to think about her voice, she forgot her moves, and if she concentrated on her moves, she forgot her lines.
“You don’t know how to relax,” she was told in Mime.
“Your voice is monotonous,” she was told in Diction.
“You have no poise,” she was told in Ballet. And as for Fencing—poor little Monsieur Desmoulins would twirl his moustache in anguish and cry, “Miss Darwin, please! It is not a sword dance. From ze wrist, if you please.”
In the production of Pygmalion that they were doing, Lynette and Vicky each had a scene of Eliza Doolittle, and Jeremy was playing Professor Higgins, opposite Lyn. Sandra was playing Mrs. Higgins, a character part that she found very difficult, and Bulldog was
playing Doolittle; over-playing it, in fact. But Roma Seymore did not object to this at all.
“That’s right,” she would cry. “Go for it. I’d much rather have to tone it down than bolster it up.”
Out of the six girls playing Eliza, the best was definitely Helen, the plain, mysterious girl who spoke to no-one and worked like a Trojan. She was never at Raddler’s for tea, and always brought her own sandwiches and ate them alone in the classroom at lunch-time. Although she had had no experience, she was the only one who showed any spark of genius to warm Mrs. Seymore’s heart. Lynette, perhaps, was the next hope, but at the moment her self-assurance was shaken by having all the new things to learn at once. At the end of the first term a scholarship was always given to the most promising beginner, and this was very often the subject of conversation for the Blue Doors on their way to the Academy.
“Wouldn’t it shake our parents if one of us got it?”
“Yes, but who could?”
“Lyn might.”
“No,” growled Lyn. “Look at Helen—and Otto—and Ali—they’re all better than I am.”
“Your Pygmalion isn’t as good as Helen’s, but by the end of the term your Shakespeare will be.”
“No, Bulldog must get it on his Mr. Doolittle.”
“Don’t be silly! Old Whitfield will say I’m hamming. You know what a tartar he is for ‘subtlety’.”
“The only one of us who can win anything this term is Nigel, for his scenic design. There’s no-one half as interested in it as he is,” said Sandra.
“And even he doesn’t seem madly enthusiastic, you must admit,” added Jeremy.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lyn. “He’s been going down to the workshop every night this week.” There was a rather meaning silence. Lynette looked up sharply.
“Or has he? Do you mean he’s been going out with that Auriole atrocity instead?” The others nodded dumbly. “Well, I’m blowed! What a fool the boy is! He could win the prize with so little effort, if he’d only make the effort.”