Hudson 02 Lightning Strikes

by V. C. Andrews

  "You all right, sweetie?" a small, elderly lady asked as she stepped out of the shop.

  I guess embracing myself and squeezing myself against the wall made me look peculiar.

  "No. I can't find where I have to go," I said.

  "And where would that be, sweetie?"

  She looked up at me and blinked her eyes. Her face was almost painted, she had so much makeup on.

  "Here," I said thrusting the address in front of her. She glanced at it and looked up.

  "Oh, you're not far, sweetie. Just go left here until you come to the Plowman's Pub and it's right around the corner. Matter of fact," she said opening her umbrella, "I'm headin' to visit a friend who lives nearby. Always have my cup of tea with her about now," she said. "Later, when the pub opens, we go down and have a shandy. Come on, now," she beckoned and I knelt to step under her umbrella. We had to make some funny sight walking down that sidewalk, I thought.

  "What's a shandy?" I asked her.

  "A shandy? Oh, just half beer and half lemonade. Ain't you never had a shandy?"

  "No," I said laughing.

  "My first husband and me, we would spend every afternoon together at the Plowman for the last five years. He passed on six months ago."

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "Yeah, it don't pay to get old, sweetie. You stay young and keep dry now," she called as she turned into the doorway of a building next to the pub.

  I hurried around the corner until I found the address. It looked more like a small office building than a school, but the name was written on the double glass doors. I entered just as two girls in black tights came bouncing down the stairs on my right, giggling loudly. They looked like sisters. They both had very dark brown hair but one girl's was cut short at the nape of her neck and the other's was longer and seemed unbrushed, but in a way very attractive. Both had pretty faces. Their complexions were almost as dark as mine.

  "Bonjour" the short-haired one said. "Can we help you?" she asked.

  "I'm looking for Mr. MacWaine." I wiped my hair with the palms of my hands.

  "Ali, yes, Monsieur MacWaine is in his office, no, Leslie?" she asked the other girl.

  "Mais oui. You come to be a student?" she asked me.

  "Yes."

  "You are the girl from America?"

  "Yes," I said laughing to myself. The girl from America, I thought.

  "Tres bien. I am Catherine and this is my sister Leslie. Welcome," she said.

  "Thank you."

  "Are you living in the dormitory, too?" Catherine asked.

  "No. I'm staying with the sister of a friend. Actually, I'm working for room and board, helping with the housework, the meals."

  "An au pair," they both declared with laughter.

  "Yes."

  "Tres bien," Leslie said. "You want to be what, a singer, a dancer, an actress?"

  "I'm supposed to study acting, yes. Are you dancers?"

  "Today we are," Catherine said. "Tomorrow we are singers?'

  They laughed again, first turning to each other and then giggling. Both had button noses, small mouths and pretty smiles.

  "We are from Paris," Catherine said, extending her hand.

  "My name is Rain Arnold. I'm from Virginia."

  "Enchante," Leslie said. "You speak any French?"

  I shook my head.

  "Well, you will learn something from every language and perhaps speak French by the time you go back to America, eh?" Catherine said. She looked at Leslie for confirmation, but Leslie just shrugged.

  "Maybe, maybe not Monsieur MacWaine's office is just through here," she said pointing at a door. "He's busy figuring his numbers."

  "Numbers?"

  "Monies, dollars, franks, pounds, lire, yen," Catherine rattled off. "He's Monsieur Moneybags, eh?"

  "Oui. He will make you a star, che'rie," Leslie said. "For a price."

  They laughed again.

  "You see all these stars?" her sister declared, gesturing toward the framed photographs on the walls. "How do you say ...graduate... graduates from here? Someday maybe your picture will hang here, too?"

  I nodded.. The wall of fame looked impressive.

  "We are off to electrocution lessons. We see you later, perhaps, yes?" Catherine said.

  "Electrocution?"

  "Oui. Where you learn how to speak perfect?'

  "Oh, you mean elocution lessons."

  "Mais oui. See you later."

  "I guess," I said as they turned and went through the door on my right.

  They had come and gone in a whirlwind of energy and laughter. I found the door to Mr. MacWaine's small office open. He was on the telephone. The moment he saw me, he ended his conversation and beckoned for me to come in as he rose and came around his desk. There were pictures of former students on the walls in here as well and pictures of what looked to be dramatic productions. On one wall were posters from musicals and plays.

  "Rain, how delightful to see you. Was your trip all right? Are you settled in with Mrs. Hudson's sister?"

  "Yes," I said to both questions.

  "Please, have a seat. All of your paperwork was completed long before today," he explained as he sat back down behind his desk "I'll take you for a tour of the school and you can start with your drama-speech class. It's scheduled to begin in a little less than a half hour. So, tell me, have you had a chance to see anything of London yet?"

  "No sir. I only arrived yesterday and went right to work at the Endfields' and then came directly here this morning?'

  "You'll have plenty of time for sightseeing. Don't worry about that, and it's part of our curriculum for you to attend theater on the West End. I promise you. This will be a most rewarding experience in every way. I'm so happy for you. Well, let's not waste any time," he said, jumping up again. "Let me show you around."

  I rose and followed him out of the office.

  'Presently for the summer session, we have only forty students. They are here at different times doing different things, so at any one time you may be with only a dozen or so students. We pride ourselves on our individualized attention."

  As we walked deeper into the building, I began to hear a beautiful male singing voice. He was singing something in Italian. Mr. MacWaine saw the interest in my face.

  "That's Randall Glenn," he told me. "A real discovery. He's from Toronto, Canada."

  We paused at a door that had a large window in it and looked into the room. I saw a nicely built boy about six feet one or two with thick chestnut brown hair framing a handsome face. His eyes were such a vivid cerulean blue that I could see them brighten as he reached high notes, turning his body slowly in our direction.

  A short, plump, charcoal gray--haired man accompanied on the piano. His fingers were so thick they looked glued together, webbed like the hand of some amphibious creature. When he turned toward Randall Glenn, I saw his face was round with thick, soft features.

  "No, no, no," he cried, lifting his hands from the piano keys. "Too much in the throat. Sing from here, from down here," he cried patting his own diaphragm. Randall lowered his head and closed his eyes as if he had just been whipped.

  "That's Professor Wilheim from Vienna. He is a tough taskmaster, but he has turned sand into pearls. If he believes in you, you will quickly learn to believe in yourself."

  I watched as Randall Glenn looked up and began again. His voice carried with such resonance, I couldn't imagine anyone complaining. His eyes which were directed toward the ceiling lowered until they met mine. Seeing me staring at him must have broken his concentration, for Professor Wilheim slammed his hands down on the piano keys. The professor paused to calm himself down, then he looked at Randall and saw where his eyes were, and he spun on his piano stool, Mr. MacWaine lifted his hand and then turned to me.

  "Let's move on. The professor hates the slightest interruptions," he added.

  He showed me a small cafeteria off a tiny kitchen. There was a cork bulletin board with all sorts of notes, advertising the sale of thi
ngs, including show tickets.

  "The students make their own lunches here. We keep a variety of meats and cheese, yogurt and other things in the refrigerators. There's a microwave and a cooker to prepare soups and tea, if you like. After a while you'll see that we're all a little family?'

  The next two rooms were classrooms with blackboards. In one a half dozen students were reading and studying The Taming of the Shrew. A tall, thin, light brown--haired woman of about thirty walked about the room with her eyes closed, listening to the recitation. Every once in a while, she would stop the reader and ask him or her to interpret what he had read, how it should be acted and what the reactions of the other performers on the stage at that time should be.

  "Every student," Mr. MacWaine whispered, "becomes something of a director as well as an actor. Here we believe the two are intertwined. That's Mrs. Winecoup who also teaches the drama-speech class you will be entering in about fifteen minutes?' He made it sound like the countdown to a rocket launching. I felt the butterflies circling my heart.

  We followed the hallway to another stairway which brought us to the dance studio on the second landing. Mr. MacWaine explained how they had knocked down walls to create it. A tall, muscular black boy was going through ballet exercises. We watched him for a while.

  "That's Philip Roder," Mr. MacWaine said in a loud whisper. "He's already performed in a production of The Student Prince in Amsterdam. He's a homegrown boy from London. By the way, Mrs. Hudson arranged for me to have everything you need purchased ahead of time for you. When we return to my office, give you your tights, dancing shoes, books and accessories?'

  "Oh. Thank you."

  "You have quite a benefactor in Mrs. Hudson," he said raising his eyebrows.

  "I know."

  On the way down the stairs, we passed the elocution class. I saw Leslie and Catherine and two other girls, one very tall with strawberry blond hair and the other slim, about my height, with flaxen blond hair, repeating sentences as the teacher, a dark-haired man of about fifty, recited them. There were two younger-looking boys as well.

  "How now brown cow," Mr. MacWaine kidded. "Words are our tools here," he explained.

  When we returned to his office, he gave me my things and my class schedule. After the drama-speech class, I was to report to Professor Wilheim who would audition my voice and then after lunch I was to see a Mrs. Vandermark who would evaluate my dancing skills.

  "That way we'll know exactly where to start with you," he explained. He welcomed me once again, checked his watch and told me it was time for me to go to my first class. "Good luck," he offered.

  After seeing some of the students, I really wondered what I was doing here. I felt like someone who would soon be tested and discovered to be a fraud. Tomorrow they would give me my walking papers and I'd be on a plane heading back to the States. I almost wished it would happen. That's how nervous I was. In schools for performing arts like this, I imagined people were always studying you, evaluating you, judging and measuring you. It was impossible in such small classes to disappear into the woodwork like so many students did in the public school I had attended. I knew students back in D.C. whose teachers didn't know their names after having them for months. What a difference between something like this and going to school in the ghetto, I thought.

  Leslie and Catherine were already in the classroom when I arrived. The other two girls I had seen in the elocution class were seated behind them. They turned to look as I entered.

  "Ah, cherie,'" Leslie cried, "we've been waiting for you. Meet Fiona and Sarah," she said. The strawberry blonde, named Fiona, smiled at me, but the girl with the flaxen blond hair looked unfriendly, suspicious.

  "Hi, I'm Fiona Thomas." I took her thin, long hand into mine.

  "Rain Arnold." I looked at the other girl.

  "Hello," she said, barely moving her lips. "I guess you can figure it out that I'm Sarah, Sarah Broadhurst."

  The French girls were still in their dancing tights, but both Fiona and Sarah wore long skins and loose, frilly collared blouses.

  "Hi," I said to Sarah. Her lips dipped in the corners. "Are you the girl who was discovered on a school stage in America?" she asked.

  "I guess so," I said. "Where were you

  discovered?"

  "Under a rock," a male voice cried from behind me and I turned to look into the soft blue eyes of Randall Glenn. He roared at his own joke. Leslie and Catherine laughed as well, but Fiona looked shocked, "Hi," he said extending his hand. "I'm Randall Glenn. I figured you were the new student when I saw you looking through the window. Are you in the dormitory, too?"

  "No, I'm living with a friend's sister," I said.

  "Where?" Fiona asked.

  "Holland Park," I said. She looked at Sarah who smirked. "We're not far from you. I live on Notting Hill Gate and Sarah lives in South Kensington."

  "Was that the only play you were in?" Sarah asked me. She looked worried that I might have more theatrical experience.

  "Yes, the one and only."

  "Discovered at your debut? That is impressive," Randall quipped. "Don't you think so, Sarah?"

  "I'm not the one to ask," she said. "Ask Mr. MacWaine."

  "Sarah's worried she might have competition for the part of Ophelia in our cut from Hamlet this month. The school has a showcase night every two months," Randall explained.

  "I'm hardly worried," she remarked but she looked at me with narrowed eyes for a moment before turning around.

  I sat and Randall chose a seat across from me just as Mrs. Winecoup entered the room.

  "Good morning, everyone," she said and smiled at me. "Has everyone met our newest pupil, Rain Arnold?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Winecoup," Randall said. "We were all properly introduced."

  His silly grin brought a smile to my face. He winked at me and then he turned to our teacher.

  "Lovely. Welcome, Rain. You have the textbook, I see. We've just begun an analysis of Hamlet in preparation for a night of theater, dance and song we'll be having in a fortnight. Did you ever have the chance to read it?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said, "but not very closely."

  Sarah finally smiled.

  "Good," Mrs. Winecoup said to my surprise, "maybe we'll get some fresh interpretations,"

  Sarah's smile evaporated. Randall looked like the little boy who had just stolen cookies from the cookie jar, and the French girls were lit up with glee. Fiona gazed at me as if I had already made some significant statement, and I felt as if my tongue had just been glued to the top of my mouth.

  They don't take long to put you in the spotlight here, I thought.

  But after all why I was sent.

  I think.

  After class, I had to report to Professor Wilhelm for my vocal evaluation. I told Randall and he volunteered to accompany me.

  "I can't go in with you," he said, "but I have nothing until stagecraft class and I can hang around for moral support, if you like. Then, we could have lunch. I haven't been here long myself, but I'll fill you in the best I can," he continued when I just listened without commenting. He looked around nervously now. "I haven't had a chance to make a lot of friends. If you don't want me to, just..."

  "No," I said smiling. "That's fine. Thank you."

  He beamed. Did he know how handsome he was? I wondered. I'd had my fill of boys who did and were just plain arrogant about it. He seemed quite nervous however and talked without taking much of a breath all the way to the vocal studio. I learned that his father was a stockbroker. Randall said he was the oldest of three. He had a younger brother and a sister who was the baby of the fatuity.

  I was so jittery when I sang for Professor Wilheim, I could hear my voice cracking when I just sang the scales. He wanted to know if I could read music. Of course, I couldn't, and that put a look of disgust on his face for a moment before he sighed like someone gathering strength to walk another ten blocks. Then he asked what song I knew. None of the ones I mentioned pleased him. Finally, he asked me simply to
sing "Amazing Grace" while he accompanied on the piano.

  "Very good, very good," Professor Wilheim said when I finished. "You'll attend my intermediate class every Tuesday and Thursday at nine. Any conflicts?" he demanded. I glanced at my schedule and shook my head.

  "Good."

  When I told Randall I was in the intermediate class, he reacted as though I had already been cast in a major show.

  "He thinks you can carry a tune; otherwise, he would condemn you to the do-re-mi-forever class," he said. "Maybe we'll end up singing a duet one of these days."

  "Please," I said, "spare me the false

  compliments." He grimaced as if I had slapped him.

  "Don't forget I heard you sing. I'm nowhere near as good as you."

  His expression changed to an appreciative smile, and then he grew serious as we entered the cafeteria.

  "I hope I can live up to everyone's

  expectations," he muttered.

  That was a feeling I could understand. It had to be more painful to be chosen and to fail than not to be chosen at all. Look at all the disappointed relatives and friends who would learn about your failure, and then what did you do with yourself? Would that happen to me? Whom would I disappoint though? I thought. Grandmother Hudson, maybe, but certainly not my real mother and certainly not Roy. He wanted me to just give up on any thoughts of a career and marry

  There's always yourself, Rain, I thought. You'll disappoint yourself.

  Sarah and Fiona were already at the table eating sandwiches and drinking tea. Philip Roder, the ballet dancer I had seen practicing, was reading a biography of Isadora Duncan and eating a yogurt. He looked up when Sarah asked how I fared with Professor Wilhelm.

  "He put her in his intermediary class," Randall volunteered before I could respond. He seemed so determined to keep a smile off her face.