Sorrel was not the only one who was shuddering. On the Thursday, Alice came back from the theatre with a message from Miss Smith. Would Alice bring Sorrel to the Saturday matinée so that they could discuss what books and things she would need for Monday.
Miss Jay was taking an enormous interest in Sorrel’s part. From the time Sorrel had been given it there was less than a week to the first rehearsal, so there was no time with everything else she had to do to learn the whole part, but Miss Jay took her through as much of it as she could, explaining any word that she did not understand, but being careful not to teach her any inflexions.
“I know your Uncle Francis is a great authority on this play and I don’t want to let you get ideas before he starts in on you. All I want is to be certain that you’re word perfect in each scene as you study it, and don’t say any word like a parrot, but know its meaning.”
Sorrel confided in Miss Jay her fear of lessons with Miranda. She did not, of course, put it that way. She said:
“Do you think I must do lessons in the wardrobe? If I absolutely promised to come here every minute I could and worked before breakfast and when I got home at night, wouldn’t that do?”
Miss Jay laughed.
“I sympathise with you, but I can’t help you. The law is the law and you’ve got to do lessons. It’d be a shocking thing when you go down to the L.C.C. on Monday for your licence if it was turned down because you’re not having sufficient education. That’s why Miss Smith’s taking you; they’ve approved Miss Smith to teach Miranda, and they can trust her to see that your lessons are not neglected for your stage work.”
“Well,” said Sorrel, “I don’t care what anybody says, but I think it’s going to be awful for everybody. If I was Miranda I’d simply hate it if I had to go out to do my lessons to suit her, and, being Miranda, she’ll hate it even more than I would.”
Miss Jay reopened Sorrel’s copy of “The Tempest.”
“I quite see your point, but, really, what you two little girls like and don’t like can’t be considered. If you are to play the part it’s the only solution and, as a matter of fact, it will be very good for you. If you’re ever to be the actress that I hope you’re going to be, you’ll have to learn to assert yourself.” She looked up from the Shakespeare. “You do want to be an actress, don’t you?”
Sorrel was surprised at the fervour with which she answered. She had not known until that moment how fearfully she did want to be one.
“More than anything in the world.”
“Good, because in my opinion, and, mind you, it’s only an opinion, you’ve got as great a chance of becoming a good one as any pupil I’ve taught since Pauline Fossil.” She turned back to the book. “Now then, we’ll take that scene again, I’ll give you the cue.
‘Come away, servant, come! I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel; come!’”
Because Sorrel was going to the matinée with Grandmother, Holly and Mark were allowed to invite Miriam to tea. Miriam came flying to Sorrel the moment the children reached the Academy on Saturday morning.
“I’ve had another letter from Posy. She says I don’t tell her any of the sorts of things she really wants to know, and she’s asked me rows and rows and rows of questions, and I do most awfully want to answer. I haven’t got a class after twelve o’clock, but Mark and Holly have. Could you possibly write to Posy for me then, if I told you what to say? You write beautifully, and I write so terribly slowly, and all the things I think don’t get time to be put down by my pencil.”
Sorrel had come to the Academy that morning for a special class with Miss Jay but she would be finished by twelve o’clock. She had meant to spend the rest of the time, while she was waiting for Holly and Mark, learning Ariel’s next scene, but Miriam was so full of hope that she simply had not the heart to say no.
At twelve o’clock Sorrel sat at her desk and Miriam leant over her shoulder. Miriam laid Posy’s last letter in front of her.
“You read it and you’ll see what a terrible lot of things she wants to know.”
Sorrel smoothed the sheets of paper.
DEAR MIRIAM,
Have you started centre practice? When you get to the bourrées, especially the bourrées changé, ask Madame to show you what she showed me, or perhaps she has already. It’s that point coupé jetté bourrées changé bit that she makes so clear. I do wish I could talk to you instead of writing a letter, and then I’d know how far you are and if Madame has shown you any of her things. You ask in your last letter about the American ballets. Of course, there are some, and I hear they are just wonderful, but my contracts have not let me get away and nothing has been here lately. I asked you in my last letter to tell me about “Hamlet” “Comus” and “The Birds.” How is Helpmann’s choreography? Do you like it? I hear that he is very keen on line and so is Manoff. They say there’s been a new ballet this year called “The Quest,” about Una and the Red Cross Knight. Pauline and Garnie say I ought to know about them, but I always hated English literature, and if it’s Spenser I wouldn’t be interested. Please go and see it before you write again and tell me all about it. Pauline says will you please tell Sorrel that she’s working in a new picture, and she won’t be writing for a week or two because she is on location. Nana says she hopes that you wear enough when you’re dancing, as England’s so damp, and from the sound of you you probably suffer with your liver. That’s because Madame described you as a pale little thing with dark hair. That’s how Petrova looked and Nana always thought she had a liver. Please give my love to Madame and tell her that I’ve added a little bit to my message that my feet say each morning. When you’re ready to work on your points, I’ll send a combination to you which you can send to me every morning at your practice, and I will send it back to you. I won’t send it yet because it’s not so good demi-point, and too advanced anyway.
Love,
POSY.
XXXXXXXXX
Sorrel tore a clean sheet of paper out of the middle of an exercise book and wrote Miriam’s address and the date on the top right-hand corner.
“Well?”
Miriam practised little steps while she dictated.
DEAR POSY,
I do a little centre practice, but Madame says that you forget that I’m not quite nine, and you didn’t do her things nearly as young as that. Would you please write in littler words next time. I take your letters to Madame and we read them together, but though Madame explains them they are still very difficult.
Now I will tell you about the ballets. I have seen “Hamlet,” “Comus” and “The Birds.” I think “Hamlet” is queer, but Madame says it will be easier when I have read the play. Hamlet is dead at the beginning and dead at the end, and all the middle is what he dreams when he’s dying, Madame says. It is a beautiful ballet for line; there is a queen in it who has ladies of the Court to attend on her, and always they’re grouped round an entrance which is centre stage left. There is one bit I like very much, when all of them hold golden cups.
“Comus” is a lovely ballet. Margot Fonteyn dances the lady and she has some beautiful foot work to do, but what I liked best was the attendant spirit danced by somebody called Margaret Dale. Madame says, will you please tell Monsieur Manoff that this is a part that Vera Nemchinova should have danced. She says that Monsieur Manoff agrees with her about that dancer. All the same, Madame agrees with me that Margaret Dale is beautiful in this rôle, but I think in three years I will dance it better than she does. “The Birds” I have only seen once; there is a part of a nightingale danced beautifully by Beryl Grey. I went with Madame to see this ballet, and she said that it was good for me to watch Beryl Grey. I have not seen “The Quest.” Dad has been on tour for E.N.S.A. and he’s now rehearsing for a revue and Mum does not like ballet. Dad will take me when he has time, and I will write to you all about it. I shall be starting point work this autumn. Madame says that you always had precision; why haven’t I?
Love,
MIRIAM.
XXXXXXXXX
P.S.—Holly sends her love and says she still hasn’t got much beyond dancing a baby polka, so you wouldn’t have wanted to give her your scholarship. Holly dances the baby polka as Dr. Lente would do it, and as Miss Jay would do it, and sometimes, when she is very bad, as Madame would do it. She makes us laugh and laugh.
Sorrel, whose hand was getting tired, folded the letter.
“Well, I won’t have any more P.S.’s, that’s quite enough. It’s lucky I’ve taken so many lessons on the history of the ballet or I would never be able to spell those words and names. I never knew Holly did imitations.”
Miriam was always immensely serious about people’s work.
“She does, but nobody’s seen her yet. She does talking imitations, too. I told Mum and she said that your mother was a mimic and she was awfully funny, but she was never allowed to do it properly because Grandmother and Grandfather wanted her to be a serious actress.”
Sorrel handed the letter to Miriam.
“You won’t lose it, will you, after I’ve taken all the trouble to write it?”
Miriam looked surprised.
“Of course not. I’m taking it this very second for Madame to read and she’ll send it away.”
Miriam dashed out of the door and Sorrel looked after her. Miriam was always a puzzle to her, she was so purposeful, so unafraid of anybody, so certain where she was going. If Miriam could speak blank verse at all, which she would never try to do, she would not be afraid of acting Ariel. If she was going to play the part at all she would know she could do it. Why, oh why, was she, Sorrel, not like that?
Sorrel arrived at the theatre that afternoon well before the curtain was up. Alice sent her to Miranda’s dressing-room.
“It’s no good you coming in with us, we get in a state if people hang round when we’re making up. I’ve had a word with the stage manager, and when Miss Smith’s done with you you can come down on the stage and watch the play. Wait till we’re on the stage and then knock on our dressing-room door and call me. I’ll take you down.”
Miranda was making up when Sorrel went in. Miss Smith was sitting by the dressing-table doing “The Times” crossword puzzle, and in a corner of the room sat a little fair girl knitting. Sorrel had wondered what on earth to say to Miranda. Miranda saved her the trouble of wondering. In answer to Sorrel’s knock Miss Smith said “Come in,” and Miranda, streaking grease paint on to her face, muttered in a furious voice:
“They can let you come into my dressing-room if they want to, and they can make us do lessons together, but I won’t speak to you, ever.”
Miss Smith was in an armchair; she patted its arm.
“Come and help me with my puzzle, Sorrel. Mary’s trying very hard to get a vest finished for her baby brother, but we’ll ask her to help us with words if we get stuck.”
Miranda rubbed her grease paint smooth.
“Well, I hope you don’t all chatter; if you do and I dry up on the stage, it’ll be your fault.”
It was terribly awkward. Miss Smith went on with the crossword puzzle as though nothing were wrong and tried to pretend that Sorrel was helping, which she was not. Occasionally she asked Mary to help, but Mary obviously was not the sort of person who was good at crossword puzzles, because when she was asked for something with nine letters she suggested words with three or four. The call boy came round and said, “Overture and beginners, please,” and Miss Smith got up and took Miranda’s first-act dress off a coat hanger, and Miranda put it on, and then Miss Smith fetched her bonnet, looked for her gloves and gave her those, and still Miranda said nothing. At last the call boy knocked on the door and said, “Miss Brain, please,” and Miranda, with her nose in the air, stalked out and slammed the door.
When the door was shut, Miss Smith tidied Miranda’s dressing-table.
“I don’t have to go down with her for this entrance, Alice looks after her. I’m sorry she’s being so difficult, Sorrel, it’s not your fault.”
Mary laid down her knitting. She was a round-faced little girl with fair hair cut in a fringe; she looked the sort of child who would never say anything but “Yes, please,” but now her voice was angry.
“I think Miranda’s being perfectly hateful.”
Miss Smith went on calmly tidying the dressing-table.
“Miranda isn’t really angry with Sorrel. She’s so terribly disappointed, poor child, she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“All the same, she needn’t take it out of Sorrel.” said Mary stubbornly.
Miss Smith smiled at Sorrel.
“You mustn’t let it make any difference to you, just go quietly on as if nothing has happened. Now, tell me about your lessons. You were in the same class as Miranda, weren’t you? But Miranda seems a little bit behind you from the reports from the Academy, especially in mathematics and literature.”
Sorrel, to the best of her ability, explained to Miss Smith exactly where they had got to that term, but she knew she was not sounding very intelligent. Miranda was being even worse than she had expected. How awful to have to rehearse with Uncle Francis, who would probably be angry with her because she was not as good as Miranda, and as well go up to the wardrobe and do lessons with Miranda, who would not speak to her.
If Miss Smith thought Sorrel’s answers not very intelligent she showed no signs of it; instead, she unpacked a paper bag and held out a sponge sandwich.
“Look, this is the sponge sandwich I promised you with a cream centre, or what pretends to be cream. We’ll have tea after the act and then you can go down on the stage and watch the rest of the play, dear. I’ll just pop along the passage and put on the kettle.”
Mary waited until the door had shut behind Miss Smith. Then she winked at Sorrel.
“I may be mean, but I couldn’t be more pleased really; I know she’s your cousin and all that, but if you ask me, a disappointment won’t do her any harm.”
Sorrel rather liked the look of Mary.
“I feel that too in a way, only the awful thing is that she really would have been good as Ariel.”
“Do you think you won’t be?”
Sorrel fidgeted with her plaits.
“When somebody like Grandmother or Alice or Miss Jay at the Academy has just that minute been talking to me I know I will, but when I’m alone, like in my bed or my bath, then I’m not a bit sure.”
Mary held out the vest to see how it was getting on.
“I know just how you feel; it’s how I felt when I thought Miranda was going to play Ariel. You see, if she had, I expect I’d have played Sylvia. I kept kidding myself I’d be as good as she was, but inside I knew I wouldn’t. It’s that bit in the second act when she has to get all dramatic. I do my best at it, but you ought to see the stage manager’s face at the understudy rehearsals. As a matter of fact, though I wouldn’t tell them at home, I was not a bit certain that if Miranda gave up the part they wouldn’t get somebody else and leave me as understudy.”
“Don’t you want to be an actress?”
“No. I started as a dancer, but my legs got too fat; then I understudied Wendy in “Peter Pan” with this management. I’m reliable, that’s a thing understudies have to be, you know: always punctual, never ill and always know my words. If I could be certain the people I understudy would never be off I wouldn’t mind understudying until I grow up.”
Sorrel was quite incapable of believing there could be a person who felt like that.
“But it’s so dull. Just sit in a dressing-room and knit.”
“Oh well,” said Mary contentedly, “it’s not so bad, and I take my money home every Friday and that’s a great help; and it’s not as if I was going to do it always, because as soon as I’m old enough I’m going to be a hospital nurse.” They could hear Miss Smith coming up the passage. Mary lowered her voice. “But, mind you, anyone who understudies Miranda and has to share her dressing-room earns their money.”
They had a funny tea. Sorrel, in spite of the goodness of the sponge sand
wich, could only nibble at it and look at Miranda out of the corner of her eye. Miranda had her cup of tea and a piece of sandwich at the dressing-table and spoke to nobody. Mary, who was obviously quite accustomed to this sort of atmosphere, ate three slices of sandwich and clearly enjoyed every mouthful. Miss Smith kept talking and did not seem to mind because nobody answered. Sorrel was glad when overture and beginners were called for the next act.
Alice waited until Grandmother was safely on the stage, and then she took Sorrel’s hand and led her through the pass door and down to the stage manager. He was following the play in the prompt book. Alice gave him a nudge.
“Here’s the other granddaughter; you’ll have no trouble with this one.”
Sorrel found it fascinating to watch the play from the stage. In three or four steps she could be on the stage herself and in front of the audience; it was like being half in one world and half in another. For the first time for days she forgot all about Ariel. It was such fun seeing Grandmother and Miranda and all the other actors and actresses within touching distance, as it were. From where she stood it sometimes seemed as if the people on the stage were speaking to her and when Grandmama said that Sylvia ought to be whipped, she felt a shiver run down her spine.
Theatre Shoes Page 23
