The Swish of the Curtain

by Pamela Brown

  “You don’t appreciate good music when you hear it,” she mourned.

  “Oh, go and find Bulldog.”

  With much puffing and blowing she squeezed along the side. When at last she found herself at the back, her dress was black with dirt and her face covered with smuts. She surveyed her hands ruefully and rubbed them down her dress. Bulldog was nowhere to be seen, but the little back door was open, and she walked into a dark, musty atmosphere. Bulldog’s voice called to her from the gloom.

  “Hi, who’s that?”

  “Me.”

  “Maddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay there. The lights won’t go on, but I’ve got an electric torch. I’ve tumbled over three chairs already.” There was a crash. “That was the fourth.”

  The beam of the torch travelled to and fro. Maddy saw that she was standing by the side of a large raised platform, on which stood a chair and a table. There were benches and chairs arranged in rows down the length of the hall, facing the platform, and little blue hassocks in front of them. The windows down each side were of the same frosted glass as the one that was being mended, and as they faced blank walls they let in only a glimmer of daylight. On the other side of the platform was a little door. She went across and poked her nose into the room. It contained a large table with several chairs standing round it, and benches, step-ladders, and brooms stacked in the corners. She was joined by Bulldog. “Not exactly a cheerful place, is it?”

  “No,” she agreed. “And jolly dirty.”

  “So would you be if you were left alone for three years.” They explored all the corners.

  “Here’s a little wash basin. I should think when this was a chapel this was the vestry.”

  “It’s very empty now,” Maddy said. “I suppose all the vests were taken away when Brother What’sisname was put in jail. May I have the torch? Thank you.”

  “H’m. Peculiar place. I found that back door left unlocked, so I walked in. I’ll go and fetch the others.”

  Left alone, Maddy clambered up on to the platform and wrote her name in the dust that carpeted it. The others arrived, breathless and dishevelled, a few minutes later.

  “What a sinister-looking place!” Sandra exclaimed. “And doesn’t it smell horribly. I’d like to get to work on it with a scrubbing brush.”

  “Look, a piano! Spotlight, Maddy!”

  Nigel dashed to it and thumped out swing music with great vigour. Bulldog began to croon in a husky, urgent tone, and Vicky did an impromptu rumba. They only stopped when they were breathless.

  “You didn’t know we could do that, did you?” Nigel laughed at the surprised faces of the others.

  “It’s clever,” Jeremy criticized, “but it’s not beautiful. Whoever taught you to play, Nigel?”

  “No one. I picked it up myself.”

  “Oh, that explains it!”

  “Don’t be rude, Jeremy. You can’t play like that,” Lyn admonished him.

  “I think Nigel plays as well as Jeremy, only differently,” said Sandra fairly.

  “Let’s hear you, Jeremy,” Vicky requested.

  He sat down at the piano, stared into space a little, then dreamily his fingers floated into the melody of a Beethoven sonata. The tune changed into “Barcarolle” from Tales of Hoffman.

  “Come on, Sandra,” he murmured.

  She went and stood by the piano.

  “Night of stars,

  And night of love…”

  Her voice was soft but sweet. Lyn got up and ballroom-danced with her shadow to the slow waltz time. When the last lingering note had died away the others applauded vigorously.

  “Why, that’s wonderful,” said Nigel appreciatively.

  “I don’t think much of it,” said Maddy truthfully.

  “Do better yourself, then,” Lyn retorted.

  “I’ll play the piano like Jeremy and Nigel,” she offered.

  “Go on, then. Give me the torch.”

  With a wicked grin she seated herself at the stool. “Shout out when you know which one I am,” she said. With a crashing discord she started her recital. There was no tune, but the rhythm and the swing of the left hand from the bottom to the middle octave was unmistakably Nigel’s.

  “Nigel!” they shouted.

  The smile on her face – a perfect caricature of Nigel’s, with lips parted and teeth just touching – turned to the vague, slightly miserable expression worn by Jeremy when at the piano. She touched a few notes with the soft pedal on, then did the five-finger exercise with much feeling. Her audience roared and Jeremy was blushing in the darkness. She carefully picked out the notes for a final chord, swept the back of her hand across her brow, a familiar gesture of his when the curly quiff of fair hair in the front was troubling him, and ended solemnly and forlornly.

  “You little demon, Maddy,” burst out Jeremy, laughing.

  “She’s got us, all right,” agreed Nigel, “but I didn’t know we looked as peculiar as all that!”

  “You know, between us we are quite talented,” Lyn remarked thoughtfully.

  “We’re infant prodigies,” Nigel agreed lightly.

  “Specially me on my mouth-organ.” Maddy produced it again amid groans of despair.

  “I think we’d better be going,” said Sandra. “Bulldog’s torch seems to be fading. Shut the piano lid, someone. How did you and Maddy get in, Bulldog?”

  “The little back door was unlocked.”

  “Goody; we can come in whenever we like,” Vicky rejoiced.

  “It’ll be somewhere nice to come to in the winter, if it isn’t being used again by that time,” Nigel agreed.

  “Must we squeeze along the wall again?” Lyn asked distastefully, eyeing her pink cotton frock which had been considerably soiled on the former journey.

  “I think this back gate will open.”

  Jeremy walked over the patch of untidy grass that was strewn with empty tins, newspaper, and refuse of all kinds. He tried the low gate, set in a broken-down fence.

  “Yes, we can get out on to a street parallel to the one in front.”

  “What’s the name of that street?” asked Sandra, latching the gate behind her.

  “Pleasant Street,” answered Bulldog. “It’s written up on the wall at one end.”

  “The person who christened it must have had a sense of humour,” laughed Nigel; “I can’t think of any street more unpleasant.”

  As they parted at their gates Sandra reminded them, “Ten to three this afternoon to go to Mrs. Bell’s. We must be punctual.”

  “Not too punctual. It’s not etiquette to be waiting on the doorstep on the stroke,” said Nigel.

  “You bet we shan’t be,” laughed Lyn, “not with Jeremy and Maddy to be got ready.”

  A friendly scuffle ensued.

  * * *

  It was half-past three when they stood in a row on the vicarage doorstep and Sandra rang the bell. Last minute instructions were whispered.

  “Don’t say ‘Gosh’, and don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sandra warned Maddy.

  “And, Jeremy, do make polite conversation. Don’t sit like a stuffed giraffe, as you usually do.”

  Jeremy was used to being ordered about by his younger sister.

  “Remember not to do acrobatics. You’re not wearing shorts,” Nigel reminded Vicky, and to Bulldog, “Don’t eat too much.”

  However, when Mrs. Bell opened the door all their anxiety concerning etiquette was dispelled, for she was the kind of person with whom one felt instantly at home. They hung their coats on the hall-stand, and she led them into the large airy lounge, into which the afternoon sun streamed through the open french windows. They sat down and talked, Mrs. Bell asking interested questions about their schools and occupations.

  Maddy, who had eaten a large dinner and was now curled up in the sunshine on a divan, found herself growing drowsy. Birds singing in the garden and Sandra’s voice telling Mrs. Bell about the Home Science Division at school were the last things she heard bef
ore she drifted into soft rosy dreams. The next thing she knew was a voice, a great distance away, that said, “so perhaps some tea will wake her up.” She opened her eyes and sat up. How awful of her to go to sleep when she was invited out to tea! The others were laughing, but Mrs. Bell said comfortingly, “I don’t blame you, Maddy; this room is far too hot, that’s what’s wrong.” The front door slammed. “Ah, there’s the vicar. I’ll tell Madge to make the tea.” She hurried out, and a few minutes later the vicar came in. He was a grave-faced, elderly man with whitening hair.

  “He’s like a saint,” thought Sandra admiringly, as he shook hands with them. Like his wife, he was a great lover of children, although they had none of their own.

  Over the tea-table in the cool old dining-room he began to tell of the book he was writing on the life of St. Paul. They listened with half their attention, the other half being centred on the demolition of the delicious home-made cakes and scones that Mrs. Bell had provided for them. One of the dishes was covered with a cardboard box, and when everyone was nearly satisfied she removed it with a flourish. Underneath was a cake coated with white icing and written on it in pink, “Many happy returns for Madelaine”.

  “Ooh,” squealed Maddy rapturously, “however did you know it was my birthday?”

  “Aha, a little bird told me.”

  The cake was cut into slices, and Maddy had the piece with the M on it.

  “It reminds me of the ones you used to make for the annual sales of work at Maybridge,” the vicar told his wife as he bit into his slice. She blushed as he went on, addressing the children, “You know, when I first met Mrs. Bell she was the daughter of a country rector, and she used to help him run the parish. Then he decided it was too much work for her and advertised for a curate. She was very annoyed at the thought of losing her old position, and made up her mind to hate the new curate, but I was the curate, and you can see what happened.”

  “What did?” asked Maddy breathlessly.

  “They married and lived happily ever after, of course,” said Lyn.

  “That’s right,” the vicar assented.

  “Do you remember those amateur theatricals in the village hall when we used to sing duets?” asked Mrs. Bell, her eyes shining.

  “Those were great times. If you remember, I proposed to you when you were fitting me for the prince’s costume for the Christmas pantomime. You were on your knees, not me, because you were pinning up a hem.”

  He was addressing his wife now, and they seemed to have forgotten the presence of the children.

  “Yes,” went on Mrs. Bell, “let me see, wasn’t it one of the doctor’s daughters who played Cinderella, and you had to kiss her? It used to make me feel so jealous!” They both laughed.

  “And do you remember how we all used to bring peppermints to suck during rehearsals, and old Mr. – oh, what was his name? – he was the choirmaster—”

  “Rawlins?” Mr. Bell suggested.

  “Mr. Rawlins. Yes, he used to get into such tempers and tear up the script.”

  “It sounds as if you had a lot of fun,” said Lyn enviously. “I wish there were a dramatic company I could join.”

  “Well, my dear, where there’s a will there’s a way. I think you children ought to start one of your own. You’re all quite clever. I’ve heard you, Lynette, and Sandra at that end-of-term concert, and Jeremy, I know, plays a violin, and you three can do things in the acting line, can’t you?” she asked the Halfords.

  “Oh yes, they can. Vicky dances, Nigel plays the piano, and Percy” – Lyn giggled – “he sings.”

  “I thought your voice was beginning to break.” Mrs. Bell seemed surprised.

  “Oh, it’s not that sort of singing,” Bulldog explained hastily, wincing at her use of his first name. “It’s a sort of tenor.”

  “I see. Well, with all that talent I’m sure you could get up a very nice little show.”

  “Why ever didn’t we think of that before?”

  “What a good idea!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t it be fun!”

  “Do let’s, then I can play my mouth-organ!”

  The children were excited by the idea.

  “There are plenty of church funds and deserving causes to which you could give the proceeds,” remarked the vicar.

  “The only thing is, where should we give the show?” Nigel asked, frowning thoughtfully.

  “I could let you use the Ladies’ Institute hall, but I’m sure Mrs. Potter-Smith would be offended,” said Mrs. Bell apologetically. “She would think that if anyone gave a concert it ought to be her people. But really, after that last one, I don’t feel like asking her to get up another. I thought that dance she did was almost indecent.”

  The children giggled at the remembrance of it. Maddy, who was drinking her tea, spluttered suddenly and choked. She coughed violently and tried to say something.

  “Got – idea…” She struggled for breath and her eyes streamed. “That place!” Here she was interrupted by a more violent fit than ever.

  “Maddy, don’t try to talk. Hold your breath,” Sandra urged.

  But Vicky realized what she was trying to say.

  “Don’t you realize what Maddy’s thought of?” she asked excitedly.

  “That hall – in Pleasant Street.” Nigel banged his fist triumphantly on the table.

  “Of course, the perfect place!”

  There was an excited babel of chatter. The vicar and his wife looked bewildered until Sandra explained how they had found the All Souls Brethren Chapel.

  “Ah, yes,” said the vicar, leaning back in his chair, “I know the place, and I heard something about the fellow who ran it. He was a fraud, of course, but I believe a very charming one. You say the place is not being used at all?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Well,” the vicar knitted his brow, “I can’t see any reason why, with my permission, you shouldn’t use that hall for a little theatre, provided, of course, that you give the proceeds for charity. It actually stands in my parish, so I will explain to the bishop about it. But if ever the hall is wanted by anyone else for use as a chapel or other place of worship you’d have to turn out.”

  The children were seething with delight.

  “But I thought the man paid for it himself; therefore it still belongs to him,” said Mrs. Bell anxiously.

  “Not if the notes were forged. I suppose it belongs to the town, by rights.”

  “How glorious!” exclaimed Lyn. “A theatre of our own! Oh, it’s a dream come true.”

  “It’ll need a lot of cleaning up,” said Sandra, “outside and in.”

  “I’ll turn that back-yard into a garden,” Bulldog offered enthusiastically.

  “And I’ll paint the outside,” said Nigel.

  “We can use that vestry place for a dressing-room as there’s a wash basin. And there’s the piano, that’ll be useful, and oh – what about curtains?” Vicky was stumped.

  Mrs. Bell got up suddenly. “Follow me,” she ordered mysteriously.

  They mounted two flights of stairs after her and found themselves in the attics. She entered one and opened a chest that stood in the corner. There was a layer of newspapers and moth-balls on top, and underneath lay some heavy blue material. She unfolded it.

  “Curtains. Stage curtains. They’re what we used in Maybridge. And here,” she patted the chest, “are a lot of our costumes and properties.”

  She delved into the box and brought out armfuls of dresses, swords, hats, and all the most thrilling junk imaginable.

  “All this, dears, is at your disposal if you care to use it,” she told them kindly.

  “Thank you, oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Bell,” they cried ecstatically. “However can we repay you?”

  “By giving a really enjoyable play and working at it very hard,” she replied.

  “Now, I expect you’d like to be discussing it among yourselves, so I’ll leave you.”

  She disappeared, and over the open costume box they wildly
and enthusiastically discussed the future.

  5

  THE BLUE DOOR THEATRE

  It was Monday morning and they sat round the table in the little room of the hall, armed with pencil and paper. Silence reigned for the first time since the decision at the vicarage tea-table had been made. Realizing that before it was attempted to get up a show they must give the appearance of the place a lot of attention, they were now each engaged in making a list of necessary alterations and the cost it would involve. The vicar had arranged the turning on of light and water.

  “I’ve finished.” Vicky banged down her pencil.

  “Tell me some,” begged Maddy.

  “Don’t be silly. This isn’t a parlour game.”

  “Youngest read first,” ordered Nigel, who, as eldest, had been appointed chairman of the meeting. Maddy stood up and coughed importantly.

  “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking—”

  “Don’t stooge!”

  Maddy read her list.

  “Number one – remove peculiar smell. Cost – all depends. Number two – get something to muffle the loud pedal of the piano in case Nigel plays it. Cost – don’t know.”

  She sat down and Nigel glared.

  “Is that all? We’ll only consider the first point. That is – the peculiar smell. Now, what does it consist of?”

  They sniffed earnestly.

  “Ah – Bisto!” remarked Maddy.

  “I think it’s just general dust and cobwebs and dampness,” said Sandra.

  “With a touch of bad drains,” added Jeremy.

  “Well, how do we remedy it? Come on, Sandra, this is in your line.”

  “It needs all the floors scrubbed, all the windows cleaned, and a good dusting.”

  “Right, we’ll put that on the list.” He took a fresh piece of paper. “Number one – cleaning of interior. Cost?”

  “Nothing. We can do it ourselves,” Sandra told him.

  “Now you can cross off anything to do with cleaning that you have on your lists. Next, please. Which of the twins is the younger?”

  “Bulldog. Half an hour.”

  Bulldog read his list.

  “Number one – plant marigolds in the garden. Number two – put up stage curtains. Number three – paint door. Cost – nothing.”