by Pamela Brown
“Where shall we go?”
“Not home,” said Lyn emphatically. “I’m not going until bed-time.”
Sandra looked anxiously at her, feeling glad that the tension in her own home was not so bad that she had to keep out of it.
“Let’s walk down to the library,” suggested Nigel, “and have a browse in the reading-room.”
The High Street was cool and empty. Usually when they walked down to the library late in the evening they walked right across the path and swung along in good spirits. Tonight there was no elasticity in their tread, and their utterances were only sighs. After the hubbub that they had been living in, they felt they needed quiet for a little while. Arguments, reproaches, and pleadings were still swimming in Lyn’s head.
“Words, words, words!” she quoted to herself. “And what on earth is the use of them all? We only go round and round in a circle.”
In the reading-room she made straight for the magazine, Amateur Drama, before the others could reach it. When Maddy tried to look at it over her shoulder she elbowed her away, and settled down to read it all through, starting with the advertisements on the inside of the front cover. On the first page was a notice in large type that caught her eye: “One-Act Play Contest”. She read it idly, and saw that the adjudicator of some board of acting was touring in the south of England to judge amateur companies in one-act plays. The contests would be held at Bournemouth, Portsmouth, and Brighton in May; in June at Bath, Reading, and Fenchester.
Lyn made a loud exclamatory noise, to the disgust of several elderly gentlemen who were nearly asleep in their chairs. She pushed the book across the table to Nigel, who was reading the Art Gallery on the other side, and stabbed at the notice with an excited finger. He read it, then looked up, and they saw the light of battle in his hazel eyes. He beckoned the others and they gathered round and read it through. Jeremy took out his notebook and scribbled down the rules for entering, and the address to which applications were to be sent. Still obeying the golden rule of silence that was enforced, they left the reading-room.
“We’ll go in for that, if we die in the attempt,” said Nigel forcefully.
“Our parents won’t let us,” Sandra demurred, “not after the ructions of the past week.”
“But they can’t be so cruel as to stop us from taking an opportunity like that,” wailed Lyn, almost in tears again. “They can’t!”
“They will,” said Bulldog. “I would, wouldn’t you? Think of it, if your children had been behaving as we have, would you let them?”
They agreed dolefully that they supposed they would not.
“But it won’t do them any harm if we go in for this.” Lyn shook herself angrily.
“It will do Jeremy some harm,” said Sandra. “It will distract him from both his exams.”
“It won’t, Sandra. Only from one. I’m not taking School Certificate,” he said suddenly, aware that he was causing a sensation.
“Not taking it?”
“No. The Head told me this morning that my form master told him that I should never pass, so I’ve got to have another whole year at it. That’s just as I planned,” he said in a satisfied tone. “I can get my L.R.A.M. by next Easter, heaven willing, weather permitting.”
“But why didn’t you tell us?” Maddy wanted to know. “Then we could have rejoiced with him that rejoices.”
“I thought that as they that weep were in the majority, I’d weep with them for a bit, and also I don’t want it known at home till things have settled down a bit. It would give them the last hump that breaks the camel’s back.”
“That it would! But it’s a good thing really, because there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t go in for this contest.”
But when they told their parents about it there were many reasons produced.
“Certainly not, after the way you’ve been behaving,” was Mr. Halford’s ultimatum.
“Another play just before your exam? Certainly not, Jeremy! Don’t be silly!” rebuked Mrs. Darwin; and when he took a deep breath and informed her that there was no exam for him this year she was so furious that she said, “All the more reason why you should do a bit of work now, instead of wasting your time acting. What your father will say, I don’t know!”
But she did know. He would say, “Dear me, that’s bad,” and forget it the next minute.
Mr. and Mrs. Fayne might easily have been persuaded by the use of kind words and gentle tones, but as the rest of the company were helpless, Sandra and Maddy did not try. Instead, they held an indignation meeting that evening in the garden, and talked and talked until everything there was to be said had been said ten times over.
“I can’t even cry now,” grumbled Lyn. “I just go all hot and get in a temper. We must do something about it.”
“Now is the time,” said Nigel slowly, “when we need the help of the bishop.”
Maddy jumped up. “Let’s make a crusade down to Bishop’s Court and beg him to help us! Couldn’t we have a strike, and do like those factory workers did? Chain ourselves to the railings till he promises to come and see our parents?”
“That’s not a very good suggestion, but we could go and see him. And he must come quickly, because father has sent up to get particulars of a secretarial college for me, and he must be dissuaded before I’m enrolled,” said Nigel urgently.
Maddy pulled him up from the grass. “Come on. Let’s go while the fit is on us.”
The girls insisted on doing their hair and putting on their best coats before making their way to the bishop’s house, which was in a quiet crescent off the main Bournemouth road. They climbed the grey stone steps up to the imposing front door and read out loud: “Do not ring unless an answer is required.”
Lyn pulled the old-fashioned bell rope, and it pealed and pealed and had not stopped ringing when the door was opened. An elderly housekeeper stood on the mat – a most superior person, who looked more like the matron of a hospital. She surveyed them in acid surprise.
“She looks as if we’re the dog’s breakfast,” whispered Maddy from the bottom step.
“Good evening. Is the bishop in?”
“He is.”
“Er – may we speak to him?” Nigel was rather cowed by her haughty manner.
“He is writing a sermon.” She said this as if it closed the question, and made as if to shut the door.
“But, please, we must see him. It’s very important.”
“He is writing a sermon and does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Will you take him a note, then?”
“I could do that.”
“Make it nice and dramatic,” urged Maddy, as Nigel wrote on a piece of paper, leaning it against the wall, “then he’ll see us.”
He wrote: “We are in trouble. Please, Bishop, may we see you and have your advice? The Blue Doors.” He handed it to the housekeeper, and she stalked away with it.
A few minutes later she returned to say sourly, “The bishop says he will see Nigel, and the rest of you will come in and wait.”
They followed her along the dim, lofty hall into a large drawing-room, full of massive furniture and dark curtains. She ushered Nigel into a study lined with bookshelves, across the corridor, then returned to the drawing-room, standing in the shadows and fixing her eye stonily on the six who sat nervously on the edge of the heavy furniture.
“Does she think we’re going to chew the antimacassars?” whispered Maddy.
“What a funny room to find in the bishop’s house,” thought Sandra. “I always thought he had good taste.”
The study that Nigel entered was far more the bishop’s style. There was a blazing, cheerful fire, although this was summer; water-colours hung on the walls between shelves of books that reached from wainscot to ceiling. The bishop sat at a desk littered with papers.
“Hullo, Nigel.” A friendly smile lit up his cadaverous face. “Sit down. Now can you help me with my sermon? I want a little story to illustrate the maxim that a thing worth doing is
worth doing properly.” He tapped the desk with his pen.
“How about the parable of the man who came upon treasure when ploughing the field, sir?”
“Of course! Excellent.” The bishop wrote it down and talked on about his sermon until he had made sure that Nigel had lost the strained expression that he wore on entering. At length he said, “Well, Nigel, what is it you want to tell me?”
Nigel took a deep breath and began. “We’ve come for your advice and help. Bishop, what profession do you consider us most suited for?”
The bishop smiled. “I think I know what you’re worrying yourselves about. You all want to go on the stage, and your parents object.”
“That’s right, sir. How did you guess?”
“I have eyes and also ears.”
“Well, what is your opinion on the subject?”
“Let me answer your question with another. If you go on the stage what will your aim be?”
“To make the Blue Doors a successful professional company. We’ve planned it all, sir.” Nigel’s eyes shone as he described it. “We should each have three years at a dramatic school, and I should have one year at scenic art, then we’d come back to Fenchester—”
“You’re sure you’d come back?”
“Why yes, sir! This is just the kind of town that needs a theatre.”
“But yours isn’t big enough.”
“We’d use it until we raised enough money to build a better one.”
“And if it didn’t pay?”
“Then we should have to drop it and take up what we call our auxiliary careers. Mine is shorthand and typing, Sandra’s cooking, Bulldog’s electricity – we’ve all got one. Does it sound such a feather-headed plan as our parents think?”
The bishop shook his head and spoke musingly.
“It sounds quite feasible, and as a lover of Fenchester, I’m sure you could help the town considerably. What your parents fear is that once you got to London you would stay there, mix with a lot of irresponsible young people, and turn into Bohemians of an unpleasant type. I quite see that point.”
“And also,” joined in Nigel, “they don’t like the sound of it. They bother about what people will say.”
“I suppose, as a bishop I should discourage you from this idea, but let me give you this piece of advice – don’t bother about what other people say, if you think that what you’re doing is right.”
“We don’t consider we’d be doing wrong in going on the stage, but our parents do, excepting Mrs. Halford, who was a dancer herself.”
The bishop rose.
“Well, Nigel, I’ll do what I can for you. I’ll call round and see your parents later this evening. Now I should like to see the others.”
He went across to the drawing-room where they sat waiting, and dismissed the housekeeper. When she was out of hearing Maddy said in a relieved tone:
“Gosh, I’m glad she’s gone. She’s been fixing me with an evil eye as if she were about to turn me into a rat.”
“That is my chief retainer, Mrs. Griffin by name.”
They agreed that the name suited her, and he told them that beneath her stony exterior lay a heart of gold.
“But come into the study,” he invited them. “I never stay long in this gloomy room.”
In the study he heard all their grievances, and they discussed the problem from all angles. He ended up the hearing by saying:
“I would not advise the stage as a career for any other young people that I know, but I believe that you seven, if you work hard and stick together, could make a real success of your enterprise, which will have my blessing.”
“And you’ll try and persuade our parents to let us try the competition?” asked Lyn in a little voice, shaky with hope. He nodded, smiling, while they tried to find words to thank him. Nigel wrung him by the hand.
“Thank you, sir, you’re a sport, and even if you don’t succeed it will be something we shall never forget!”
The atmosphere was emotional, until the bishop said, “Now you must come and have some supper with me.”
He rang the bell and the griffin appeared.
“My guests are staying to supper,” he announced. “We will have ginger beer to drink. And now,” he said, “how about a little music?”
He led the way into the dark dining-room, where stood an immense Bechstein grand piano, with a glimmering ebony top. The bishop put his long fingers to the keys and they sang many sacred songs from famous oratorios, “Oh, for the Wings of a Dove”, “It is enough”, “Fling Wide the Gates”, and many other less-known ones. The bishop had a beautiful bass voice and played the piano with great skill.
“May I try the piano?” asked Jeremy shyly.
“Certainly.”
“Oh, it’s marvellous.” His fingers caressed the milk-white keys. “So different from ours at home, that we spoilt when we were kids. It’s got several notes that won’t play, and the ones that play sound like a barrel organ.”
“You may come and play on this any time you like,” the bishop told him, “so long as you don’t play jazz. I don’t allow my dear Bechstein to be ruined by swing with the loud pedal down.” He grinned at Nigel. “But it’ll be nice to have you playing on her, for she doesn’t have enough use to keep her in trim, as I have so little time.”
They noticed that he spoke of his piano in the feminine, as a sailor does his ship.
“Why are you so kind to us?” Maddy wanted to know.
“Perhaps because I have no children of my own to spoil.”
“I’m glad you haven’t any children,” said Maddy candidly. “I should be very, very jealous of them.”
Still in the twilight they sang “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”. Then Griffin came to announce that supper was served. It was an epicurean meal of mushroom soup, poule sauté, and fresh fruit salad.
“I’ve had a full sufficiency,” groaned Maddy at length, “and if I have any more I shall burst.”
Even Sandra was too merry with ginger beer and laughter to reprove her. After supper they wandered round the garden until the sermon was finished, when the bishop would walk home with them. The garden was large and well kept, with such perfectly trimmed lawns that it seemed as if they ought to wipe their feet before crossing them.
“I feel more hopeful than I have for weeks,” remarked Sandra, as they strolled along the twilit paths.
“Same here. I really think he’ll do it. Even if he only persuades them to let us try the contest it will be something.”
“Then some big producer will watch the competition and offer us a contract,” laughed Sandra.
“A lot of good that would do,” said Lyn bitterly. “They’d prosecute him for attempted kidnapping.”
“If by ‘they’ you mean our parents, you’d better not let the bishop hear you say that. Remember how he hates your cynical remarks.”
“I wonder why he thinks we ought to be angels?” pondered Lyn.
“Because he’s an angel himself,” replied Maddy.
“We do know some different types of people, don’t we?” remarked Vicky. “Nice ones like the bishop and the Bells, and nasty ones like Mrs. P.-S. and Mrs. Flanders.”
“Then there are people who look nasty at first and are really nice, like Miss Maclowrie and the Griffin,” added Lyn.
“Are we nicer than we look, or do we look nicer than we are?” queried Maddy.
“Look nicer than we are,” said Lyn. “At least I hope I look better than my soul does at times.”
“Where is your soul, and what does it look like?” Maddy wanted to know.
“I think it’s my heart. I always imagine it like a heart on a Valentine, although I know it’s really an ugly affair with auricles and ventricles and what not.”
“I keep my soul in my waist line,” observed Maddy, “and it’s round and flat, rather like a pancake.”
“So when you’re eating your heart out for anything you’re really having pancakes for dinner,” remarked Bulldog facetiously; h
e was feeling rather out of his depth in this introspective conversation.
“It’s a wonderful night,” observed Sandra, after a while. “‘On such a night as this’ all sorts of things could happen.”
“A miracle may happen before the night is out,” said Jeremy. “Won’t it be good to look back on tonight when we’re old and have nothing but dreams to live on.”
“We have complete faith in the bishop, haven’t we?” said Lyn. “It’ll be awful if he can’t manage it.”
But there was no conviction in her doubt. The talk and the music and the peace of the garden had calmed their troubled nerves, and it seemed that nothing could go wrong any more.
It was a little past nine when the bishop came out, with his black hat on, and said he was ready to walk home with them. A pale moon was beginning to show as they made their way along the quiet streets, each angling to walk next to their benefactor. By the gate of the Corner House he said, with the air of a conspirator, “Now I am going to call on Mr. and Mrs. Halford. Sandra and Jeremy, will you tell your parents that they’re wanted urgently at the Corner House, and then you can all go to bed and sleep the sleep of the justified. I’ll do my best. Good-night, children.”
“Good-night,” chorused the Faynes and Darwins.
“Dear, sweet bishop,” added Maddy, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
Nigel and the twins took him into the house, and when the door banged behind them Lyn said dramatically, “There go our futures, our careers, and our happiness.”
“I’d like to hear the arguing that will go on,” giggled Maddy. “Wouldn’t it be funny if our parents forgot themselves and said, when they found themselves being beaten, ‘Now not another word!’ like they do to us.”
