Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles

by Lindsay Johannsen

  * * *

  In the event our play got under way as smoothly as we could ever have hoped for, and, as the action unfolded, it became clear that it was, in every way, a resounding success.

  … for as far as it unfolded, anyway.

  15. The Exasperated Major; and Remembering The Borrowed Boots

  It all went catastrophically wrong about three-quarters of the way through, in one of the funniest parts of the script. By this time the cast was awash with confidence, their stage-fright well and truly gone. Now they were stage comedians with their audience in a fair state of hysterics … and they were enjoying it immensely.

  Major Brassbottom was red-faced with exasperation and being his most pompous. His bumbling subordinates were lined up in front of HQ with Brassbottom trying to get them organised. As he turned and glared out over the audience he suddenly noticed flames issuing from among the cars parked on the sports ground.

  His immediate reaction was to shout “Fire! Fire!” …words which were not too much at odds with the general thrust of the script. Bluey and Curley both thought he’d forgotten his next line and was ad-libbing, so Curley quickly did the same to help recover the situation.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir,” he said. “The nearest enemy position is forty miles away!”

  “Don’t be stupid!” yelled Brassbottom. “Something out there’s bloody burning!”

  “Right, Sir!” snapped Curley, really getting into the swing of it. “Bluey can get some water buckets and I’ll sound the alarm!”

  They bolted for the stairs stage-right like sprinters out of the blocks, Curley with a slight head start. But in the heat of the moment Bluey had forgotten about the area set aside for the jeep. As his feet hit the wax he executed an incredible sort of flying arm-over reverse double twist half nelson. He demolished the tent mid-flight and took the wreckage as he went.

  Curley was a microsecond in front of him; he’d just reached the top of the steps when Bluey arrived – half airborne and festooned with torn canvas and splintered slats. An instant later the whole flapping gyrating disaster disappeared over the edge of the stage.

  The audience was hysterical. They thought this two half-seconds of unrehearsed chaos was part of the play. But they missed the best of it.

  The entire debacle landed squarely on me and my stage manager’s table, the catastrophe developing so quickly it caught me totally unawares. I was riffling through the script to find where the action had jumped one moment, on the floor in a tangle of bodies, canvas, broken batten and smashed furniture the next.

  A boot in the ear and a knee in the ribs refocused my attention. “What the HELL’S goin’ on?!!” I yelled.

  “The stupid bugger’s gone bloody troppo!” shouted Curley angrily. “Quick! Get some buckets! We gotta keep the flamin’ thing going!” (Meaning the play, of course.)

  Despite the audience seeing nothing of the action this supposedly mutinous response to Brassbottom’s alarm just brought the house down. We heard more roars of laughter, too, as we disappeared in the direction of the workshop – apparently connected with the continuing action on-stage.

  Rosie was trying to convince the audience he’d stopped the play and broken out of character … and was failing miserably. All they could see at the front of the set was a babbling, panic-stricken Major Brassbottom.

  Then he recognised which of the vehicles was burning. “It’s the Blitz!” he yelled raggedly, his eyes wide with horror. “The Blitz-truck is on fire!” Identifying the old army truck in no way helped his cause; everyone just laughed all the more.

  Suddenly he realised the futility of his situation and jumped from the stage. Straight down the aisle and into the night he bolted, desperate for something to try and extinguish the fire.

  When the audience turned to see what Brassbottom would do next they too caught sight of the flames. A quick reaction was then forthcoming as people ran for their cars, all of which subsequently led to their taking control of the fire.

  About then we three arrived back at the hall. We’d found some buckets and had run all the way, stopping only to fill them. Gasping for breath and jelly legged, Bluey and Curley stumbled onto the vacant stage – all grace and elegance and water slopping everywhere.

  From there the scene was baffling. No cast, no alleged fire … and little evidence of any recent multitude. Unbeknown to us the emergency had reduced the audience to just a few women and small children.

  Those who did remain were talking amongst themselves; they seemed oblivious to anything happening on stage. And all Rocky and Sash could do was stand there and gape in bewilderment at the strangely depopulated hall.

  Neither was I any the wiser. It was as if the whole episode – Bluey and Curley, the packed house, the great roars of laughter – had simply never existed.

  “I suppose it was like this in England,” said Rocky after a while. “You know, in thirteen forty-eight … when the plague arrived. People just disappeared, ay.”

  “Rocky…” Sash said slowly, still looking in disbelief over the almost deserted hall and still holding onto his bucket. “You failed History. What do you know about the plague?”

  “Nothin’,” said Rock. “Just the date.”

  “Well where d’you reckon everyone went?”

  “They just died, I suppose. Or ran away. …Then died.”

  “No, Rock; the people that were here. I wonder where they went.”

  “I dunno,” said Rock, “I just … dunno. I suppose they’ll all come back again when they’re ready.”

  In due course they all did return, after which it was generally decided that instead of finishing the remaining items we should proceed straight on to supper. In a well-rehearsed and orderly manner a team of boys moved the chairs outside to where the tables had been arranged on the grass – there being no further threat of storms. At the same time Mrs Finnegan orchestrated the transport from the kitchen of all the plates and dishes, most of which had been donated by our guests.

  Under threat of plain violence we boys demonstrated our excellent manners, waiting until everyone else had served themselves before stepping forward to fall on the offerings with vigour. “Pillage” is the word I believe I’m grasping for, as over the course of the evening we’d worked up a considerable appetite.

  During supper I learned of the fire and other events which took place while we were absent from the stage. I couldn’t find Angus, so I went over to the car park to see what was left of the Blitz. Not much could be seen in the moonlight, but it was obviously not as serious as I’d heard. Differing accounts had led me to expect something in the order of a blackened area of grass containing the cremated skeleton of an old army Blitz-truck.

  The passenger’s side of the cabin had suffered the most damage. It s outside was burnt and blistered and the seat inside totally destroyed. The fire apparently started under the instrument panel when some of Angus’ more innovative wiring alterations had found a direct short to earth. The wires would have fused in a shower of sparks, setting fire to the hoard of grease-rags he always kept under the passenger’s seat.

  It was too dark to see more. I was just relieved Angus hadn’t lost the old bomb. This was the only transport he had on his little cattle property.

  While I was investigating I heard the sound of a car door being closed. Shortly afterward a girl’s voice issued from the darkness nearby. “That certainly caused a lot of unnecessary excitement,” she said. “And what a pity it had to interrupt the play. I haven’t laughed so much in ages.”

  “I erm … didn’t really see it,” I replied. “I ran over to the tool shed with a couple other kids to find some buckets to er … help put out the fire. By the time we got back it was all over. Then we had to help with getting the chairs ready for supper. This was my first chance to have a look.”

  “It’s not as bad as we thought it would be,” she said as she came closer. “It looked terrible when we first got here, but someone had a fire extinguisher and
soon put it out.”

  I’d seen this girl before, too. Even in the darkness there was no mistaking that long fair hair. The first occasion was at a church function with her parents, and another time she’d been in sports uniform at an interschool athletics event. But I’d seen her most recently walking with some other girls in the main street of Ingham. They’d been going from shop to shop, looking in the windows and chattering brightly amongst themselves.

  She’d been as happy and animated as the rest of them, but her poise and feminine grace gave more the impression of a princess with her retinue rather than just being one of the bunch, her fair hair and elegant features simply adding to the effect.

  I’d found myself following as if drawn by an invisible thread. Whenever they looked in my direction I pretended to be window shopping, though I don’t suppose my act was very convincing.

  On one occasion I found myself stranded in front of a dress shop, desperately trying to appear worldly – sophisticated enough to be interested in the fashions but bored with the actual contents of the display. To my great relief the next establishment sold hardware, but the girls had not yet moved along and my impatience to get away from the boutique window found me almost on the outskirts of their little group.

  I was oh-so-nonchalantly peering through the hardware shop door – as if making up my mind whether or not to go in – when I glanced back … and found her quietly watching me. Suddenly I was looking close-range – paralysed – into the deepest green eyes I had ever seen … unable to turn away, all mental functions cancelled, while that fathomless stare held my entire nervous system on full overload.

  After about a million years she smiled me the gentlest of smiles … but I couldn’t respond. My own face was stuck in “stunned idiocy” mode. It must have left her with such a wonderful impression.

  Then she and her friends moved off to continue their light-hearted reconnaissance – while I just stood there dumbstruck, slowly melting into a puddle of pink mush in the middle of the doorway.

  After a time I became aware of a little elderly lady asking if I was feeling all right. “—Erm ... yes, thank you,” I’d replied vaguely. “I must have been thinking about something...”

  “You certainly must have been, my dear,” she’d said. “I had to ask you three times before you answered. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  I’d often imagined myself meeting this girl again, though not here at Gower Abbey. And in these idle dreams I would be strong and self-assured, and make light-hearted, cultured conversation. Instead I was beginning to feel decidedly uneasy.

  It was the way she’d so thoroughly rattled my innards that was doing it. That, and the excellent prospects of my making an absolute fool of myself again.

  Despite these misgivings I knew I’d have to say something, as I didn’t imagine the ground would conveniently open up and swallow me anytime soon (and simply running for it seemed… Well, you know … inappropriate).

  In an effort to bolster my confidence I gave the Blitz an affectionate pat on the mudguard, then said shakily, “I’m glad Angus didn’t lose the old truck. It’d be real hard for him without it.”

  She didn’t say anything in reply. Instead she turned away and looked serenely at the moon and the coloured lights decorating the hall. Despite my discomfort I didn’t want her to go, so I asked her name.

  She smiled as she turned back. “Julia Sanderson,” she said quietly, her voice making it sound like poetry. “What’s yours?”

  For some reason my throat and chest were beginning to feel constricted. “Kevin Cassidy,” I answered thickly, “but everyone calls me Casey.”

  “Why? Kevin’s a really nice name.”

  “Ar, you know. It’s from my initials, KC.”

  Again she made no comment, while I just stood there letting the silence grow longer. Eventually, as if by mutual consent, we started ambling back toward the hall. Even then I couldn’t think of anything to say. It didn’t matter though; Julia seemed to be miles away, lost in her own thoughts.

  Suddenly she stopped and turned to look straight at me. “Now I remember,” she said, her almost-luminous eyes searching my face, “You’re the boy who was looking in the dress shop window.”

  I didn’t dare look her way, even in the moonlight. And my face felt like it was beginning to glow. Argh, what a fool! I thought. Whatever the case, I had no hope at all of overcoming my embarrassment and making any sensible reply. To add to my problems I found myself becoming saturated with the beautiful warmth of her closeness, as if I was breathing some strange euphoric vapour.

  The way back to the hall took us by the bench seat under the big tamarind tree. As we drew nearer to it Julia said, “Let’s sit here for a while before we go back.”

  This was something of a relief, I must say. My legs were rapidly turning to jelly and about to suffer total ambulatory malfunction.

  Julia Sanderson

  On sitting down I became filled with the strangest sensation, an altogether glorious feeling of warmth and wonderment at being near her in the deep shelter of the tree – all mixed with my earlier disquiet.

  For a time we were silent and listened to the sounds of conversation and laughter that drifted across from the gathering. ...And oh how desperately I wanted to start a conversation with her, to talk to her, to say something or even think of something that might drag my stupefied wit from the tar-pit in which it was so thoroughly mired.

  Over in the hall someone put a record on the gramophone and the thin-sounding music came drifting across on the evening breeze. As I said before, even in the darkness I couldn’t bring myself to look straight into her lovely eyes – though I knew she was looking at me. Then ever so softly she said, “Kevin, can you dance?”

  Dance?!! I was doomed! A feeling of dread washed over me as I realised the pre-ordained course that events would now inevitably follow.

  I would say No and she would say Of course you can it’s easy and I’d say I’m sorry but I just can’t and she would insist on dragging me over to the hall to show me how and I’d be completely hopeless and she’d be disappointed and say You might at least have made an effort to try Kevin and I’d say I’m sorry but somehow I just don’t have any feeling for it – or something equally as stupid.

  Then she would stalk off and sit with her parents for the rest of the evening and ask when could they go home about every ten minutes until they got sick of it and left. Then if I saw her ever again she would probably just cut me off, most likely for the rest of my life. There was no way out.

  “No,” I croaked, wishing I was somewhere else entirely – like on Jupiter perhaps. “I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry.”

  Julia got to her feet and stood in front of me a moment. Then she reached forward and gently took my hand … and up I came like a weightless marionette. “I’m not very good either,” she said quietly. “I always feel so clumsy when other people are watching.”

  “Yeah...” I said romantically.

  I don’t actually remember how it happened, but without any conscious effort on my part I found myself holding her gently and moving in time with the music. It was an experience I couldn’t begin to describe, except to say that I felt no awkwardness or clumsiness at all. I was practically floating on air and it all seemed so natural.

  Then a little circuit in my brain that was somehow still managing to function reminded me how nice it was I had changed out of the number nine boots I’d borrowed for the play.