by Pamela Brown
“I wonder,” Jeremy began slowly, fingering the piano and finding it out of tune, “if the town council would help?”
“Why should it?” objected Lyn.
“Well, if Fenchester wants a theatre oughtn’t the council to be willing to grant us a loan until we have got started and can pay it back? If the hall belongs to the council we shall be paying them rent as well, so it will be quite a good thing from their point of view.”
“But does Fenchester want a theatre?”
“It needs one. Fancy a town of forty thousand inhabitants without a rep. It’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, but who on the town council would see that?”
“I’d vamp the Mayor, if you like,” offered Maddy generously.
“Who’s the Mayor now?”
“Barrington, the grocer. A horrid little man,” Maddy informed them. “But Lord Moulcester, from Fennymead, you know, he’s on the council, and Miss Gaunt. As she was our headmistress, she ought to help, now oughtn’t she?”
“It’s our only hope,” Lynette said finally. “And the only way of doing it independently. Because when we had paid it back we should be entirely self-sufficient.”
“Not quite,” said Sandra, “because as the hall belongs to the council we should always be somewhat in their power.”
“Supposing”—Vicky sat up suddenly in horror—“supposing they won’t let us open it at all?” The thought was too awful to be grasped.
“No, no,” said Lyn. “They couldn’t stop us. Or, could they?”
“Look here,” said Sandra. “We’re getting all het up about nothing. We must find out first if there’s going to be any trouble before we start worrying about it.”
“Let’s go round and see the dear Bish,” urged Maddy. “He’s always a help, and I know he wants to see you.”
As they came out of the theatre who should they bump into but Mrs. Potter-Smith. Her fur coat seemed shaggier, her hair more peroxided, and her hat more atrocious than ever.
“Well,” she cried, widening her cow-like eyes and clicking her false teeth. “The dear things! After all this time! How you’ve grown! I should hardly have known you. And you look—cleaner somehow than you used to,” she laughed tinklingly.
“You look about the same,” responded Maddy.
“Oh, you naughty wee one! Yes, I’ve heard all about your escapades. Being a film star went to our heads a little, didn’t it? I hear you’ve had to leave your school?” The Blue Doors seethed, but Maddy was imperturbable.
“Yes. They drummed me out. Miss Gaunt chopped off my form captain’s badge with a sword while the school percussion band played Land of Hope and Glory.”
“And where are you going to now?” Mrs. Potter-Smith asked inquisitively.
“Oh, Borstal, I expect!” said Maddy airily.
“Really, Maddy!” put in Sandra. “No, Mrs. Potter-Smith, she left her school because a junior department is being opened at the Academy we go to, and she’s coming there to join us.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Potter-Smith. “And what are your plans after that?”
“I really think we should be getting along,” said Nigel firmly, and almost dragged the others away.
“We must keep quiet about our plans,” he insisted. “Old Potter-Smith could spoil everything if she got mixed up in it.”
Ringing the door bell of the Bishop’s house it really seemed like old times again—to be running to the Bishop for help. His poker-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Griffin, answered the door and betrayed no sign of welcome or of recognition.
“May we see the Bishop?”
“Who shall I say?” she inquired.
“The Blue Doors, of course,” said Maddy. “Don’t you remember us? We remember you.” The housekeeper disappeared and returned to say that the Bishop would see them. He rose from his desk as they entered the study. He seemed a little older and a trifle bent.
“Hullo, Blue Doors,” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. “I heard you were back in Fenchester and hoped you would call. How nice it is to see you all again! Sit down, do! I’ll ring for some coffee.”
“We’ve had some,” began Sandra.
“But we could do with some more,” added Maddy.
“Good. Well, let me look at you. Mm! still the same, thank goodness. Well, how is the Academy?”
“Wonderful.”
“Heavenly.”
“Lovely,” they replied.
“And how much longer have you there?”
“A couple of terms.”
“And then?”
“Well, that’s what we’ve come to talk to you about, Bishop,” began Nigel.
“Oh, dear! You must think, Bishop, that we only come to see you when we want help,” apologized Sandra.
“What else is a Bishop for?” he asked simply.
“You see,” said Nigel. “When we leave the Academy to open the Blue Door Theatre, the main difficulty will be money. We need several hundred pounds to buy new seats, alter the stage and equipment, build on new dressing-rooms, and hundreds of other things. Doubtless, when it gets started we should be able to pay back whatever loan was necessary for us to start, but where can we get that loan from?”
“Yes,” mused the Bishop. “I too have been thinking about this question for quite some time. Much as I should like to be able to help you personally, I’m afraid it is not possible. Also, I don’t think that the Blue Door Theatre should be run as a private or commercial affair. It should belong in a sense to the town, so that the town will feel disposed to patronize it.”
“Are we back at the subject of me vamping the Mayor?” Maddy asked, and was hushed up.
“I think that the best thing to be done is for me to approach the Town Council on your behalf to ask for a loan to turn the Blue Door Theatre into a civic theatre, with yourselves as their resident company.”
“But would they?” queried Lyn. “Would they?”
The Bishop paused and thought hard.
“They might,” he stated. “They might. One just cannot tell. There are so many factions on the council at the moment.”
“How awful it will be if they won’t,” said Vicky gravely. “What should we do?”
“Don’t think about it for the moment,” advised the Bishop. “Here comes the coffee, so drown your sorrows, and tell me some more about your studies.”
They told him about the Easter play tour and about Tutworth Wells, but omitted their evening occupations of the last term.
“Well, you’re not sorry, then, that you have pursued theatrical careers?”
“What other careers could we have had?” asked Maddy. “Except, of course,” she added politely, “being a Bishop. That must be rather fun. But they don’t have lady Bishops, do they?”
They left the Bishop’s house in a slightly more cheerful frame of mind, although he had not been over-optimistic. They were wandering along still discussing their prospects when Sandra looked at the new wristwatch she had been given for Christmas.
“Heavens! It’s one o’clock! We must fly!”
“Why are we incapable of being in time for lunch?”
Over the lunch table Maddy said to her mother, “Saw Mrs. Potter-Smith this morning.”
“I hope you weren’t rude to her.”
“I was. I told her she didn’t look any cleaner than usual.”
“Maddy! You know you must not be impolite to her, or to anybody else, for that matter. A great many people think very highly of Mrs. Potter-Smith, and she’s getting to be quite an important person in the town. Why, she’s even on the Town Council now.”
“What!” Maddy and Sandra choked simultaneously over their soup.
“Yes. She was elected last time. What’s the matter? Have I put too much salt in the soup?”
“Oh, Mummy!” Sandra was almost in tears. “That’s done it!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“We’re applying to the Town Council for permission to open the Blue Door Theatre and asking
for a grant to start off with.”
“Are you? Whose idea was it?”
“The Bishop’s.”
“Then it must be all right,” said Mr. Fayne. “But I don’t know if you’ll get it. They’re a funny crew these days.”
“You’re telling me!” said Maddy. “With Mrs. Potter-Smith as chief comedienne.”
“We must do something to get round Mrs. Potter-Smith,” said Sandra urgently. “What can we do?”
“Well, you know,” said Mrs. Fayne, “I’ve often thought I ought to ask her to tea. She’s always very friendly to me—gushing, in fact. I know you children don’t like her, but if it’ll do any good, I’ll ask her round.”
“But it must be from us,” said Sandra. “May I write the note inviting her?”
“Certainly, dear.”
“Talk about ‘sacrificing all for one’s art’!” said Sandra, as she got out her writing paper and pen.
“I think,” said Maddy, “that I’ll just write a little note to the Bishop telling him that Mrs. P.-S. is on the council now. I’m sure he doesn’t know. And she is one of his deadly foes.” So she too got out some paper and stretched herself on the hearth-rug. They were just finishing their letters when the rest of the Blue Doors came ringing at the bell.
“We hear that the mill-pond over at Fennymead is frozen, and we’re going over to see if there’s any skating. Coming?”
“Rather!” exclaimed Sandra, “but I don’t know if our skates are in very good condition. We won’t be a minute. Here, Maddy, put my letter to Mrs. Potter-Smith into an envelope, while I go and ferret out the skates.”
“I’ll finish my letter to the Bish when I come back,” remarked Maddy, skating having overshadowed all other considerations.
It was a long walk to Fennymead, but when they got there they found a good solid covering of ice on the mill-pond, and people skating airily round or staggering at the edge. The Blue Doors staggered for the first few minutes, but then got used to it, and skimmed round happily. They met a lot of their friends, who greeted them with slight awe, now that they were on the stage. And now that Maddy had acted in a film she was, of course, looked on as something quite out of this world.
“Soppy dates,” said Maddy scornfully, as two little girls stared and giggled at her.
Vicky was in her element on the ice, for all her ballet training came to the fore, and she was soon leaping and pirouetting as easily as if she were on dry land. Maddy got on quite nicely, but was inclined to fall down if she stood still.
After the long tramp home they were ravenously hungry, and the Halfords invited them all into their house for tea.
“I love just after Christmas,” announced Maddy, her mouth full of iced cake, “because there’s always so much food left over which people are glad for you to eat up.”
“Well, whenever we want any eating up done,” teased Nigel, “we shall know just where to come.”
It was quite late in the evening when the Faynes returned to their house.
“Haven’t you posted your letter to Mrs. Potter-Smith yet?” asked their mother.
“Yes. I posted it this afternoon.”
“Excuse me, dear, but it’s still on the table.”
“It’s not. I posted it with those others you gave me.”
But there lying on the table was the envelope addressed to Mrs. Potter-Smith. Sandra picked it up, puzzled.
“Maddy, do you mean to say you posted an empty envelope?”
“No,” said Maddy firmly. “I distinctly remember putting the letter in, addressing it in what I hoped looked like your best writing, and licking the envelope. It tasted rather nice.—Oh, gosh!” she cried, for her letter to the Bishop had disappeared.
“I think,” she gulped, “I think I’ve sent the Bishop’s letter to Mrs. P.-S.”
“You careless girl!” scolded Mrs. Fayne. “If you were not so mad to go skating—”
Maddy turned quite pale. “Oh, dear!” she said. “Oh, dear, oh, dear!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Sandra suspiciously. “What did you put in the Bishop’s letter?”
“It was to warn him that she was on the Town Council, and I said some rather nasty things about her.”
“Oh, Maddy! This is the last straw!”
Sandra ran out of the house, banging the door, and went to tell the Blue Doors of their latest misfortune.
The following morning Mrs. Potter-Smith was rather puzzled to receive a letter which read:
Dearest Bishop,
I must write to warn you that our deadly foe is at hand. In other words, that snake woman, Mrs. Potter-Smith, is on the Town Council, of all things. Isn’t it stinking? She’ll never let us open up the Blue Door Theatre if she has anything to do with it, because she has always had her knife into us, hasn’t she?
We are starting a system of getting round her, and have invited her to tea. It will be awful. Her false teeth click so. But it’s all for the good of the cause. Sandra says it is sacrificing all for our art, so I may even put on my new dress for her, though perhaps that is going a little too far…
As Mrs. Potter-Smith threw the letter on the fire there was a nasty gleam in her eye.
10
COUNCIL CHAMBER
Mrs. Potter-Smith, of course, did not come to tea. Instead, a rather puzzled Bishop turned up at the Faynes’ house next morning to return a letter that began, “My dear Mrs. Potter-Smith”.
“So I invited him to tea,” said Mrs. Fayne afterwards. “You see, I’d just made a very special cake.”
The Bishop helped to eat up the cake that afternoon, with Sandra and Maddy and Mrs. Fayne, and when they had finished and the Bishop had said firmly, “Not another crumb, thank you,” Maddy ran round to fetch the rest of the Blue Doors.
When they were all crowded in, sitting on humpties and on the floor, the Bishop said, “I have here a petition I have drafted out for the town council. I want you to read it and see if it expresses your aims correctly, and if it does, to sign it, and I shall take it personally to the Mayor. I shall talk to him as persuasively as possible, and shall leave him the petition to be read at the next council meeting.” He handed round several closely typed sheets of foolscap, which they read eagerly.
“Yes,” said Lyn, when they had finished, “that’s absolutely what we want to do, and the way you’ve put it, it reads as if we’re doing a kindness to Fenchester, instead of vice versa.”
“And then what happens? When they’ve read the petition, I mean?” asked Vicky.
“Then,” said the Bishop, “they vote.”
“Oh, I see. How many are there on the Town Council?”
“Thirteen or fourteen.”
“And Mrs. Potter-Smith is one of them!” groaned Bulldog. “Can’t we ever be rid of that woman?”
The Bishop smiled rather grimly.
“I’ve heard all about Maddy’s unfortunate slip with the envelopes—and I’m afraid it won’t help matters. What exactly did you say, Maddy?”
But Maddy would not repeat it. She would only growl, “I could kick myself—but I could kick that old harpy harder.”
“But still, that’s only one vote against you,” reminded the Bishop.
“We must canvas,” said Bulldog. “Send flowers to the whole Town Council—and—and write letters to the local newspapers under different names, saying how badly the town needs a theatre.”
“Why under different names?” queried the Bishop. “There’s nothing to stop you writing a perfectly honest letter to both the local newspapers, stating exactly what you want to do.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” said Nigel. “We’ll do that.”
“And we could make Mummy get all her groceries at the Mayor’s shop,” suggested Maddy.
“And invite Miss Gaunt to tea,” continued Vicky.
“And Lord Moulcester,” added Maddy. “He wants to meet you all, because Sandra and I told him about you when we were filming. He’s sweet, isn’t he, Sandra?”
; “Yes, I think he’ll be for us. He was on the stage for a little while once.”
“And who else is there?”
“There’s Miss Thropple.”
“Oh, yes, that arty-crafty old spinster. Mm! She’s a staunch Potter-Smithite.”
“Those are all the ones we know, I’m afraid,” Jeremy said. “The rest are unknown quantities.”
“But surely,” resumed Lynette. “Surely they’ll want a theatre—who wouldn’t?”
“But they may not want to lend any money towards it,” said Maddy sagely. “If we were offering them shares in whatever we make out of it, they’d probably jump at it.”
“We can but hope,” summed up the Bishop as he reached for his hat, prior to leaving. “I shall take the petition round to the Mayor this evening.”
“Do you get your groceries from his shop?” asked Maddy seriously.
“Yes,” laughed the Bishop, “and at Christmas he sends me a calendar, which I always give to Mrs. Griffin to hang in the kitchen.”
“That’s all right, then!” sighed Maddy.
All the following week, whenever she was sent out shopping, Maddy would go straight to Barrington’s, the Mayor’s shop, and indulge in long, friendly conversations with Mrs. Barrington in between the serving of customers. But the Mayor was never visible.
“Too busy mayoring, I suppose,” thought Maddy.
Nigel composed a very impressive letter which he sent to both the local papers, and which appeared in one of them. It read:
Dear Mr. Editor,
We, the undersigned, are desirous of opening a repertory theatre in Fenchester, at the premises of the one-time All Souls Brethren Chapel, later the Blue Door Theatre, which is the property of the Town Council.
We feel that a town such as Fenchester, which has a large percentage of intelligent inhabitants interested in the Arts, is sadly lacking in having no theatre. A repertory theatre would provide good plays weekly or fortnightly at prices within the reach of all, and would put Fenchester on the map as an art-loving town. And who could be more suitable to launch this project than seven young Fencastrians, who, having had the best possible training and considerable experience, are now anxious to return to their native soil? In short, Mr. Editor, we hope to enlist your support in this scheme, and to request your readers to convey their approval of it to the Town Council.