by Pamela Brown
None of this made sense to Zillah, so Maddy said firmly, ‘You come along with me this afternoon and we’ll explain everything to Miss Smith, she’s the Academy secretary. She’s a dear, and I know she thinks the world of Mrs Bosham. She’s bound to help. Probably she’ll get on the phone to the Binns ogress and fix it all up for you to move to my place tomorrow. Snooks and Buster and I will come and help you with your bags.’
‘I have but the one,’ said Zillah slowly, then after a long pause added, ‘It’s right kind of you to take all this trouble. I only hope Dad won’t be cross.’
When Maddy told Buster and Snooks what she had done they were not at all pleased.
‘She’s such a drear,’ said Buster. ‘She’ll be a terrible handicap to us. I think you’ve made a great mistake, Maddy. Why ever did you do it?’
Maddy puckered her brow.
‘We-ell—I knew that the rest of the Blue Doors had encouraged her—and I sort of—felt responsible. And she said she hadn’t spoken to anyone at the Y.W.H.—can you imagine it!—and that they didn’t want her there.’
‘You are good, Maddy,’ said Snooks earnestly.
Maddy shouted with laughter.
‘That’s about the first time in my life that anyone’s called me good—it shows you’re my true friend, Snooks—sorry, Miss Gloria Seymore.’
When Maddy went back to her digs in the evening she said, ‘Oh, Mrs Bosham, I’ve let your empty room for you.’
Mrs Bosham was just serving the colourless soup, and she splashed down the ladle in the tureen saying, ‘There now.’ Her round eyes, round nose and round mouth assumed an expression of disappointment. ‘And I’ve just gorn and let it to a commercial gent. And you know I’d much rather ’ave students.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Maddy. ‘Well, could you let this girl share my room for a bit, till you’ve got a vacancy? There is room for another bed, and she’s awfully lonely at the Y.W.H. Nobody’s spoken to her yet, and she hasn’t spoken to anyone, and she’s frightened of escalators.’
‘They don’t have escalators in them Y.W.H.s, do they?’ inquired Mrs Bosham, entirely missing the point.
‘No, and no grass for her either.’
Mrs Bosham didn’t understand this reference, but clicked her teeth sympathetically. ‘The poor dear. Well, well!’
She picked up her eternal piece of knitting and started working furiously while Maddy drank her soup. Maddy had her evening meal earlier than the adult lodgers, because theoretically she went to bed before anyone else, but actually once she got down into Mrs Bosham’s basement and started making toffee or telling Mrs Bosham the latest news from Fenchester, it was usually quite late before she could be chased upstairs to bed.
‘Yes, well,’ said Mrs Bosham after a few rows of purl and plain, ‘I suppose we’d better let the poor duck share your room. I feel that sorry fer you lot, when you haven’t got any parents in London, and you’ve got to be here to study. Is she younger than you are?’
‘A bit older, I think,’ said Maddy. ‘But she seems awfully dopey in some ways. It’s only because she’s frightened, I think. She’s absolutely beautiful, but her clothes are awful. We’ll have to smarten her up a bit.’
It seemed unlikely that Mrs Bosham could ever smarten anyone, for her own clothes, strained round her circular form, were completely timeless. She had worn them as long as anyone could remember, and seemed only to vary her headgear for different occasions—curlers for the morning, scarf or pixie hood for shopping and a rakish hat for really important occasions. ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bosham, ‘it’ll be nice to have another youngster in the house. I still miss those brothers and sisters of yours y’know.’ Mrs Bosham had never been able to sort out which of the Blue Doors were related to each other and which were not.
Next day, when Maddy told them that Zillah was to share her room, Buster and Snooks expressed their disgust in no uncertain terms.
‘How can you! With someone who speaks like a farmer’s boy,’ said Snooks.
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ Maddy rebuked her. ‘And we can’t all be Cockneys.’
Snooks snorted with rage. She came from Sutton, but Maddy always teased her about having a Cockney accent.
‘You two are just jealous because you can’t come and live at Mrs Bosham’s,’ Maddy went on.
‘Jealous!’ scoffed Buster. ‘Some hopes! I’d rather die than live there. It smells of cabbage, and Mrs Bosham’s hats are a disgrace. I’d much rather live at home.’
‘Would you really?’ said Maddy disbelievingly. ‘I love Mrs Bosham’s. Of course, home’s nice too, but it’s not London.’
Zillah just said, ‘Oh’, when they told her they would come and fetch her bags as soon as lessons were over.
‘And my mother’s sent me a food parcel, with one of her chocolate cakes, so we can have a feast this evening after supper,’ added Maddy.
During the afternoon lessons, round in the schoolhouse, it became apparent that Zillah was a real dunce as far as school subjects were concerned. She could not do maths at all, had no idea of English grammar and knew no French. Maddy remembered that Sandra and Lyn and Vicky had told her that Zillah’s parents had been constantly in trouble with the education authorities for keeping the girl away from school to help on the farm. In a small class like the ‘Babies’ her ignorance showed up appallingly, and she was quite definitely behind all the others, even those who were only twelve. By the end of the afternoon she was nearly in tears with shame.
‘Don’t worry,’ Maddy whispered comfortingly in her ear. ‘Lessons don’t count—it’s the acting classes that matter, and you know Mrs Seymore said you have a lovely voice.’
‘I wish your sister and the others had never come to the village,’ said Zillah bleakly. ‘Until then I was quite happy at home with the animals and such.’
‘You’ll soon get over feeling homesick,’ Maddy assured her. ‘Come on, we’ll go out and have a lovely tea at Raddler’s, and then collect your bags.’
Raddler’s was a little restaurant, over a baker’s shop, near the Academy. The whole of the second floor was reserved for the Academy students, as the noise they made was so deafening that they could not be inflicted on the other patrons, who frequented the first floor. The older students allowed the ‘Babies’ to sit at one particular table, and when this became full they had to sit two on a chair, on each other’s laps, or squat on the floor.
Zillah looked around the restaurant as though she were seeing the zoo at feeding time. Everyone tried to talk to her, and even some of the older students came over to have a look at her, but Maddy fended them off, and Buster and Snooks, too, found themselves coming to her defence.
After they had drunk glasses of milk and eaten innumerable sticky cakes, they walked down Tottenham Court Road window shopping. When they reached the Y.W.H. Maddy went up to the reception desk and said firmly, ‘We’ve come for this little girl’s luggage,’ although Zillah towered above her by quite a head.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the clerk, ‘I know all about it. Zillah can take you to her room.’
Zillah led the way up several flights of stairs until they reached her room. It was tiny, clean, light and airy, and looked totally un-lived in. In the middle of the floor was a small and very shabby old Gladstone bag.
‘Is that all?’ demanded Maddy.
‘Yes,’ said Zillah. ‘I’ve only got my Sunday best.’
Snooks thought she had said ‘Sunday vest’ and giggled, but Maddy glared at her.
‘Oh well, it’s best to travel light. Come on.’
As there was nothing for Buster and Snooks to carry they decided to go home, and Maddy and Zillah set off for Mrs Bosham’s. Maddy talked all the way, and was not particularly worried because Zillah did not answer, for she was quite used to people not saying much when she was talking.
Mrs Bosham took to Zillah immediately.
‘What a good looker, eh?’ she whispered audibly to Maddy behind Zillah’s back and puffed upstairs with them
to show how she had arranged the room.
‘There now, I’ve given you a nice mattress on me divan from the droring-room. You can put your things in the top drawer of the chest, and there’s room behind the curtain with Maddy’s things fer you to hang yours. Oh well…’ She glanced doubtfully at Zillah’s bag. ‘You won’t need all that space, will you? Now, I’ve got a nice roly-poly for yer supper, and I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.’
Zillah looked around the room, which had a view of rooftops and chimney pots. Maddy had covered nearly every inch of the walls with pictures—of the Blue Doors, ballet pictures, photographs of her parents. The final result was cosy, if not artistic. Zillah gave what was almost a smile.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s nice here.’
Maddy felt greatly relieved.
‘The supper will be awful,’ she confided, ‘but don’t worry. I’ve got Mummy’s cake up here, and we can have a private feast afterwards. It’s lovely having someone to share with. Since the Blue Doors went I’ve had to have midnight feasts on my own, which isn’t so much fun.’
Over supper, which was incredibly indigestible, Zillah began gradually to thaw out. She would make a remark in a very low voice, and then blush furiously, while Maddy and Mrs Bosham, who sat knitting in the corner, would pounce on it, elaborate it and talk for the next ten minutes before Zillah dared to make another observation.
On the pretext of going to bed early they went up and polished off the chocolate cake, and when they had gone to bed Maddy said in the darkness, ‘Do you think you’re going to like it here?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Zillah gratefully. ‘Everything is so comfortable.’
Maddy tried to imagine what Zillah’s home must be like, if Mrs Bosham’s boarding house struck her as comfortable, but went to sleep before she could get very far with the thought.
2
MR MANYWEATHER
As Friday and their first television lesson drew near, excitement among the ‘Babies’ mounted.
‘Who is the teacher going to be?’ Maddy asked Snooks.
‘A Mr Manyweather,’ said Snooks. ‘Leon Manyweather. He’s a famous television producer.’
‘Did he produce the show you were in?’
‘No, a lady produced ours.’
‘We must wear our best clothes tomorrow,’ announced Maddy, and it was a very smart ‘Babies’ class that turned up at the Academy on Friday. Zillah had been the only problem.
‘Shall I wear my Sunday?’ she had asked Maddy.
As her ‘Sunday’, a particularly unpleasant mauve velvet, was slightly more hideous than her tan-coloured everyday dress, Maddy said hastily, ‘Oh, no, I don’t think I should be as formal as that.’
For once, Maddy laid aside her favourite red slacks, put on a new pale-blue summer dress and white socks, and even cleaned her shoes. By the time she had finished with it, her hair, too, looked less like a bird’s nest than usual.
Their lesson with Mr Manyweather was to be the last before lunch, and when they trooped into the classroom they found nobody there except a young man with a thatch of reddish hair and large spectacles, who was thumping out some jazz on the rickety piano.
His playing was more enthusiastic than accurate, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He finished with a clash of discords and swung round on the piano stool to face the class.
‘Hullo. Are you the Babies? You’re bigger than I expected from the name. My name’s Manyweather.’
Their jaws dropped in astonishment, and there were a few stifled giggles.
‘Now, I’m supposed to teach you about television. It’s a big subject, and nobody knows all about it yet. I wonder how much you know already? How many of you have television sets at home?’
Half a dozen hands were raised.
‘And how many of you have acted on television?’
Buster and Snooks raised their hands importantly.
‘Good. Well, I hope more of you will have a chance before long. Now, first of all I’m going to try and give you a rough idea of how television works. And for that I’ll have to draw on the blackboard. But don’t be alarmed. It’s not a bit dull.’
It wasn’t. His drawing was very eccentric, but he livened up his diagrams with little matchstick men with ‘balloons’ coming out of their mouths saying, ‘I am a cameraman’ or ‘I am a producer.’ A lot of pupils did not understand the technical details of what Mr Manyweather was saying, but they listened eagerly because of the flow of jokes and the funny drawings.
When the lesson was nearly over he said, putting down the chalk with a large gesture, ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’re any the wiser, but that’s my idea of how television works. We haven’t even got round to the technique of television acting, but before we finish for the day I’d like to see each of you do something, so that I can feel I know you a bit. Now, all I want from you at the moment is sincerity. The camera does not lie. A television camera can see right into your soul through the windows of your eyes. You don’t need any tricks—any theatrical gestures—hardly any voice even. All you need—or nearly all—is sincerity. Try to remember those points when you do your party piece for me.’
He pointed to people at random, but there was only time for a few before the end of the lesson. After each performance he said much the same thing.
‘No, much too big. Too many gestures. Too theatrical. I know that you have been used to the theatre up till now, but you’ve got to forget everything you’ve learned and start again for television.’
The only performance he liked was from the younger of the choir-school boys, who did a speech from Henry V. Up till now he had been accused of underacting, but this seemed to suit Mr Manyweather. ‘Jolly dee,’ he said. ‘Just the job. Now do you see what I mean?’ he appealed to the others. ‘Very quiet, very untheatrical, quite sincere.’
Then Maddy was called upon. ‘Come on, Gretchen. You next.’
‘My name’s Maddy…’
‘I never call people by their names; I call them what they look like. You’ve got fair plaits like a little Dutch girl, so I shall call you Gretchen.’
Maddy did a speech of Maria’s from Twelfth Night and when she had finished Mr Manyweather laughed kindly and said, ‘Well, I can see you’re a comedienne, but that was much too broad—much, much too broad. But don’t worry. We’ll soon get you toned down enough for a television camera. Now, then, what about Velia?’
Everyone glanced round the room to see who Velia might be. It made life interesting, no one being called by their correct names.
‘The witch of the wood,’ giggled Maddy. ‘Who’s that, Mr Manyweather?’
Then she saw that he was indicating Zillah.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.
‘Zillah. Zillah Pendray.’
‘What a wonderful name. I was almost right, wasn’t I?’
Zillah did a speech of Cordelia’s which Maddy had made her learn, telling her that she could not go on saying the Twenty-third Psalm for ever, and when it was finished Mr Manyweather looked at her speculatively for a long time.
‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘Very interesting. Excellent for television in a way—no tricks, no gestures, very sincere, but your accent, of course, makes you quite impossible in a speech like that. Learn some Joan of Arc for next week, will you, please? Then I shan’t be distracted by the accent. And everyone, for next week please prepare something specially for me. I don’t want any old speech that you’ve known for years, just polished up. I want you to prepare something entirely new, remembering what I’ve told you today. O.K.?’
They all agreed enthusiastically. The bell rang, and Mr Manyweather put on a very shabby duffle coat, picked up an even shabbier briefcase, together with a frying pan inadequately wrapped in paper, a roll of music and a shooting stick, and disappeared, crying, ‘See you next week.’
‘What a funny man,’ said Maddy when he had gone.
‘Isn’t he young?’ chorused everyone, and immediately started disc
ussing what speeches they would learn for the following Friday.
‘I wish next Friday was tomorrow,’ said Maddy impatiently. ‘I want to learn more about television. It sounds such fun.’
While they were eating ham rolls in the canteen, where you had to shout in order to be heard above the din, Maddy said to Snooks, ‘You’ve got television at home, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Snooks casually. ‘Why?’
‘We haven’t. Neither at home in Fenchester, nor at Mrs Bosham’s. I’ve hardly ever seen any. Have you, Zillah?’
‘No. Never.’
Maddy turned to Snooks again.
‘There you are, Zillah’s never seen it, and I have hardly ever.’
‘Well, I can’t help it…’ began Snooks, then saw the light. ‘Oh, I see. Yes. Do come to tea tomorrow and watch television. Saturday’s is usually a good programme.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Maddy with satisfaction. ‘Had you better ask your mother? Ring her up, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Snooks. ‘I often have people in on a Saturday afternoon—usually friends from my old school. I’ve never had any from the Academy before.’
She looked doubtfully at Maddy and Zillah.
‘It’s all right,’ said Maddy. ‘I’ll wear this dress and lend Zillah a blouse and skirt, if she’d like. You would like to come to tea, wouldn’t you?’ she demanded, noting Zillah’s expression of terror.
Zillah nodded miserably, and Snooks turned her eyes up to the ceiling in despair.
Maddy was extremely pleased at having secured an invitation, for in London weekends were rather a problem. She could not often afford the fare to Fenchester, and it was very dull at Mrs Bosham’s when there was no Academy to go to. And going out, though nice, was expensive.
Snooks gave them minute details of how to get to her house, and when she noticed Buster looking wistful she included her in the invitation as well.
