by Pamela Brown
It was very difficult to be bright and debonair in the pantomime tradition on that ice-cold stage, wearing so many clothes that they looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They had introduced a prince and Goldilocks’ elder sister into the original story and these were played by Vicky and by Sandra. Lyn and Bulldog played Goldilocks’ mother and father, and Jeremy was the Demon King, who spoke the Prologue and Epilogue. Altogether it was an amusing mixture of the traditional and the topical. But all the time they rehearsed, they were wondering what it would be like playing in flimsy clothes in the ever-lowering temperature. Already they had got colds in various stages, and lines were somewhat muffled with cough sweets, and top notes had to be taken as sung.
During the afternoon rehearsal Mr Chubb poked his nose round the door and called out, ‘You’d better be good this evening. Mrs Potter-Smith has just rung up and booked three seats.’ They groaned expressively.
‘Is that woman still alive?’ demanded Maddy.
‘Very much so,’ Jeremy told her. ‘She wrote to the papers when we did On the Spot complaining that a play all about gangsters “wasn’t healthy”.’
‘Give me a gangster any day, rather than that old hag.’
‘She would be coming tonight! Not only is it a murder play, and she’ll be sure to take exception to that, but we haven’t got any proper heating. Oh, confound the woman—Come on, let’s go and have tea.’
As they trudged home, Lyn said despondently, ‘Why on earth do we do it? In any other job we’d have finished for the day by this time, and could sit in front of fires and eat our evening meal at a reasonable hour—’
‘Well, why do we do it?’ demanded Nigel. ‘If you don’t like it, I should give it up. There are a dozen attractive and capable girls that I can think of this moment who would be willing to step into your shoes.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ laughed Lyn. ‘I was only having a nice grumble.’
The extra electric fires were duly plugged in that evening, and as soon as the footlights were switched on five minutes before the curtain should have gone up, the whole system fused, the load being too heavy. There was total darkness for about ten minutes, while Bulldog and Ali stumbled about trying to put things to rights, and the audience twittered nervously. Above the twittering came Mrs Potter-Smith’s unmistakeable voice, ‘Oh, dear… this darkness… so trying… and the cold… what a pity they can’t run things more efficiently. But there, of course, the poor dears… we can’t expect much, can we… so young… Oh, it’s so cold…’
At last the lights were put right and the curtain was able to go up. The play was a very ordinary thriller, the sort of thing they sometimes threw in to try to appeal to popular taste. Most of the audience loved it, and in the cheaper seats they ‘Oohed’ and ‘Ahhed’ at the exciting bits, but Mrs Potter-Smith’s disapproval became more and more vocal as the cold attacked her toes and nose. Her offended cluckings and disapproving sniffs punctuated the whole performance. Occasionally, for good value, she threw in an audible shiver.
‘She needn’t think it’s any too warm on stage, either,’ said Vicky in the interval. The dressing-rooms were icy too, as the electric fires had been sacrificed for the auditorium.
‘Act Two, please,’ shouted Ali.
‘Yes,’ said Nigel, ‘and let’s speed it up so that we can get home and get warm.’ The rest of the play moved so quickly that it was rather like an early film being projected too quickly. People died off at an incredible rate and at last the stage was littered with corpses, the intrepid detective, played by Nigel, had discovered the murderer, and the curtain came down.
‘Gosh!’ cried Maddy, ‘my arm aches from turning the handle of that wind machine. It didn’t make me any warmer though.’
From the imitation wind and rain of the theatre, the audience turned out into the only too real blizzard that was blowing outside.
Just as the company were preparing to lock up the theatre for the night, Mr Chubb appeared, shepherding three small and shivering girls.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ he said. ‘Three snow-fairies…’ They looked a pathetic sight, with snow caked all round their faces and on their shoulders and shoes. They didn’t look at all happy. In fact, the lower lip of the smallest of them was trembling slightly. Maddy rushed to greet them excitedly.
‘Hallo, Buster! Hallo, Snooks!’ she cried, and they brightened up immediately. While they were being introduced, Vicky suddenly clapped her hands together loudly.
‘Yes, of course…’ she cried. Everyone looked at her, and she hastened to explain. ‘I’ve been absolutely stuck for what sort of dances to have in the pantomime, but—obviously—we must have a snow-flake ballet. Jeremy, quickly, some snow-flake music!’
‘Oh, heavens,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘Aren’t we ever going home?’ But he sat down at the piano and improvised some light, dancing, flake-ish music, and Vicky started to dance in the half-lit theatre, making up the steps as she went along. The fairies watched, very impressed, then, as they picked up the idea, shed their sodden coats and scarves and joined in. Maddy was the next to try, galumphing happily round, completely out of time, and bumping into everyone else. Bulldog joined her, and the dancing became more and more eccentric. Then Ali joined in, doing an oriental version of the steps that Vicky was executing. Soon they were all dancing round and round the auditorium, up on to the stage and down again. Mr Chubb was doing a stately pas seul in the foyer. At last, Jeremy’s fingers gave out, and they all collapsed laughing.
‘I’m awfully glad I could come down here,’ said the skinny fairy Maddy had hailed as ‘Buster’.
Next day things became really bad. People rang up and cancelled bookings for not only that night but the rest of the week also.
‘Because I hear the theatre’s so cold,’ was the usual explanation.
‘And who have they heard it from?’ demanded Lyn. ‘That wretched Mrs Potter-Smith, of course. I’d like to wring her fat neck.’
‘I wonder,’ said Nigel, ‘whether we ought to close down until the weather improves—’
‘Impossible, dear boy,’ said Mr Chubb. ‘We must stay open and try to rake in every penny to cover overhead expenses.’
‘This will have to be the cheapest pantomime ever put on,’ said Nigel. ‘We can’t afford to hire a thing. Thank heavens there aren’t any author’s fees. We’ll have to set about repairing old scenery like mad. I hoped for some new pieces—but that’s out of the question now.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Chubb, then cheering up slightly added, ‘The panto will bring the crowd in. People will see a show at Christmas, however cold it is. But if only we could get the stove mended—’
Bulldog tore his hair. ‘If anyone else mentions the word “stove” I shall start climbing the walls. I’ve been to everyone I can think of to get it mended, and it’s absolutely hopeless for at least a week.’
And by the time the stove was mended the damage was done. Fenchester was determined to stay away as long as the cold weather lasted. Instead of going to the chilly theatre they went to the centrally heated cinemas. Mrs Potter-Smith had certainly done her work well. She had spread word of the iciness of the theatre and the poorness of the show all round the Ladies’ Institute, the tea shops and sewing parties. And it was from these sources that most of their audiences came.
The Wednesday matinée had to be cancelled as only three people turned up. Despondently the Blue Doors trudged through the slushy snow and spent the afternoon in the cinema.
‘Though why we should swell their profits, I don’t know,’ grumbled Nigel. The film was all about a stock company in America who nearly went broke and then some dear old gentleman died and left them a lot of money, and also they got the opportunity to do a show on Broadway, which was an instantaneous success. The Blue Doors came out of the cinema laughing hollowly. That evening they played to fifteen who were all in the cheaper seats, and fourteen of them had severe colds.
And so it went on, with the snow and Mrs Potter-Smith both doing their
worst. And then, although the snow stayed, Mrs Potter-Smith disappeared. She was not at the meetings of the Ladies’ Institute nor the sewing parties. She did not sit in Bonner’s devouring sticky cakes at eleven o’clock and tea-time. She did not even go to change one ‘nice romantic novel’ for another at the lending library. And then the awful news got round. Mrs Potter-Smith was ill. She had got pneumonia. She was in hospital. What is more, she had contracted pneumonia the night she visited the Blue Door Theatre. When the company heard it, they stood and looked at each other, horrified.
‘That,’ said Jeremy, ‘has torn it.’
‘Oh, what foul luck,’ lamented Nigel. ‘I’m sorry the old monster has got pneumonia, but why—why, did she catch it here?’
‘If she did!’ said Maddy sagely. ‘She might just as well have caught it at that display of Greek dancing which she and some of her pals gave the other night. Judging by the pictures in the papers they were galumphing about wearing next to nothing.’
‘What a horrible thought,’ shuddered Jeremy. ‘Still, even if she did catch it there, we can’t prove it. And the one or two people who might have braved it and come to the theatre will now obviously stay away.’
By the Monday of the second week of Murder in Mid-Channel the stove was mended and burning merrily, throwing out a fine heat to all corners of the theatre, and nearly roasting those who were seated near it. And the audience consisted merely of a handful of the Blue Doors’ parents and friends, who had all gallantly insisted on paying for their seats.
‘It’s heart-breaking!’ cried Lyn. ‘Don’t the Fenchester people want a theatre?’
‘Evidently not in this weather,’ said Sandra, ‘and one hardly blames them.’
‘Let’s—let’s put up a notice outside the theatre saying, “It’s warm in here”,’ suggested Maddy.
‘No-one would believe us. They’d believe Mrs Potter-Smith,’ said Vicky gloomily.
‘It would come just now, when we’ve got six extra to pay next week.’
In lieu of some of their meagre pay, the six extra fairies were being lodged free by the parents of the Blue Doors.
‘It’s awfully sweet of our mothers to do it, you know,’ said Nigel. ‘We couldn’t have afforded any more in the way of salaries. I’m afraid there won’t be any for us seven this week, or for some time to come.’
‘We just must make a success of the pantomime,’ was the theme on everybody’s lips. It was shaping quite well now. The dances were all planned out, and the lines of the dialogue and the songs nearly learned. Maddy was a dumpy and sensible Goldilocks, and the antics of the three bears would be sure to appeal to children.
It was Maddy who had the best publicity idea concerning the pantomime. One day she came in to rehearsal saying, ‘I’ve got hold of something that may be useful for the panto. Mr Small-good and Whittlecock is bringing it down in a few minutes.’
Mr Smallgood (or was he Mr Whittlecock?) was the owner of an antique shop bearing those two names that stood at the corner of Pleasant Street. Maddy had often bullied him into lending them things for previous shows. Soon he appeared, bowed under an enormous furry burden. It was a large stuffed brown bear.
‘See!’ cried Maddy delightedly. ‘We can stand him outside the theatre with a notice on him saying, “Come and see me in my starring role”, or something like that.’ They did so. Bruin stood bravely outside the theatre in the snow, inviting people to come and book for the pantomime. He proved a great favourite with children, many of whom dragged their parents in to the box-office to get seats for Christmas week.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Chubb reassured the inquiring mothers, ‘we’re all fitted up for this sort of weather now. Snug as anything with a new heating system.’ And, suppressing a shiver, he would hand over the tickets.
One evening after the show Nigel called an emergency meeting of the seven original Blue Doors and Mr Chubb. ‘We must discuss economy,’ he said. ‘How can we save money, apart from not having any salaries ourselves?’
‘And making our own costumes,’ added Sandra, whose fingers were sore with sewing.
‘We could do all classical plays for a bit,’ suggested Lyn, ‘and save royalties.’
Maddy giggled. ‘We’ll have old Bill Shakespeare turning in his grave and demanding author’s fees.’
‘Yes, that would be one thing,’ agreed Nigel, ignoring the interruption. ‘But then that would mean difficult historical costumes.’
‘We’ll cope,’ sighed Sandra. ‘We always used to when we were amateurs—never hired a thing, and I’m sure the costumes weren’t worse than hired stuff.’
‘Well, what else is there?’ demanded Nigel.
‘What about letting the theatre occasionally for amateur shows,’ suggested Bulldog.
‘No, they mostly go to the Ladies’ Institute Hall. They don’t have to pay for that.’ They racked their brains in silence as they sat in conclave in the girls’ dressing-room. Then there came a tap at the door. It was Buster, the smallest fairy.
She blushed and faltered and said, ‘Well, we couldn’t help knowing, me and the other fairies, that is, that the theatre is hard up. Maddy told us. We haven’t been listening. So we thought we’d like to say that we don’t want to take our pocket-money—’
She was drowned by the reactions of the Blue Doors. Vicky burst into tears, Maddy thumped her on the back, Sandra and Nigel said, ‘But of course you must be paid,’ and Jeremy and Bulldog roared with laughter; and when she had bolted out of the room again Lyn said slowly, ‘Funny how something always turns up to show that life is worth living…’
3
SNOW-FLAKE BALLET
‘ONE—TWO—THREE, one—two—three,’ chanted Vicky. ‘Buster, your knees are bent. Snooks, smile, please. Eyes and teeth—that’s right.’ The snow-flake fairies twirled and arabesqued round the tiny stage. ‘They’re going to be the best bit in the show,’ Vicky whispered to Lyn, who was sitting beside her in the stalls.
‘I think you’ve trained them awfully well,’ said Lyn, ‘and they’ll take up a nice lot of time. The show is very short, you know. Our ingenuity doesn’t stretch very far.’
‘That’s lovely, dears,’ said Vicky, when they had finished. ‘Thanks, Jeremy. That accompaniment is fine now.’
It was only a few days to the opening of the pantomime, and the way that the bookings were piling up gave fresh enthusiasm to their rehearsals. The weather had settled down into a hard crisp frost, with the snow still on the ground. It was easier to get about and the cold did not seem so penetrating. They had sent out posters and handbills to all the villages in the surrounding district, hoping that the country people would be lured to Fenchester by the magic word ‘pantomime’, and it seemed that their efforts were to be rewarded.
On the Sunday before the opening Monday, the theatre was a hive of activity. There was the previous week’s set to be taken down, and the basic scenery of the pantomime to be put up. Changes of scene in the pantomime were being effected by curtains and painted back-cloths. Sandra sat at the sewing machine, whirring away and directing the fairies who were sewing on last minute hooks and eyes and press-studs. Nigel and Bulldog, Ali and Billy, had long sessions on the lighting and experimented with coloured gelatines over the spot and footlights, and Jeremy was constantly being accosted with ‘Do you mind just running over the last verse of my opening number?’
It was a hard day’s work, and at the end of it, when Nigel had announced ‘Dress rehearsal ten-thirty tomorrow morning,’ they were glad to make for home and supper.
As they neared their gates, Vicky said, ‘Oh, Mummy says that anyone who likes can come in for a snack. We’ve got stacks of sausages, for some unknown reason. If you don’t mind eating in the kitchen…’ It seemed an inviting idea, and they all piled into the Halfords’ kitchen, and fried sausages.
‘Maddy!’ Bulldog admonished her after her fifth. ‘If you eat another sausage you’ll look like one.’
‘She does already,’ said Jeremy, ‘so what doe
s it matter?’ It was so warm and cosy sitting round the kitchen table swapping stories, that the temptation was to stay there late, but Sandra was firm.
‘No, come on, everyone—Maddy, at any rate. We’ve all got a very hectic day tomorrow—and we can’t have fairies with bags under their eyes!’
‘Sure you wouldn’t like another sausage all round?’ inquired Bulldog, eyeing the frying pan.
‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Jeremy, loosening his belt.
Next morning everyone was down at the theatre as early as possible. Terry was hastily slapping paint on a few last pieces of scenery, and warning people not to brush their clothes against it. Last-minute faults in costumes were discovered as they were put on, and Sandra, bristling with pins, was kept busy altering and taking in and letting out.
Although the dress rehearsal had been called for ten-thirty, it was past eleven by the time they were ready to start.
The set for the first act was the interior of the cottage where Goldilocks and her family lived. Before the curtain went up, Jeremy stepped in front of it in his guise of the Demon King, and started on the prologue. He had just reached the lines:
You’ll see me in a little while
Wreck their plans with fiendish guile—
when the door at the back of the theatre was flung open. Jeremy faltered and stopped, shading his eyes across the footlights to see who was the intruder.
‘Yes?’ he inquired politely.
‘Oh, er—could I see young Mr Halford, please?’ came a falsetto voice.
‘Well—er—we’re rehearsing. Is it important?’
‘Oh, yes—most—exceedingly.’
‘Oh, well…’ Jeremy sighed wearily, then shouted, ‘House lights, Billy! Take the curtain up. Nigel, someone to see you…’ He retired to a corner mumbling, ‘Why Nigel can’t see his wretched girl friends some other time…’
The largest bear lumbered up to the visitor and growled ‘Yes?’ There was a scream from the gloom, and Nigel shouted, ‘Billy, for goodness sake put on the house lights…’ They went up and Nigel saw that it was Miss Thropple. At no time was Miss Thropple a pleasant sight, but at eleven o’clock on a cold dress rehearsal Monday, she was more than ever unwelcome. She had lank dark hair, a horse face and a perpetual affected giggle.
