The Swish of the Curtain

by Pamela Brown

  “That’s me all over,” he said complacently.

  Nigel was still looking peaceful and law abiding in his ringmaster’s clothes, but without any make-up. Sandra gave his eyes emphasis, and made the contour lines of his face less pleasant, and the moustache completed the evil effect. He twirled them joyously.

  “Sing ho, for the life of a cad.”

  “And now I must dash and see to the girls. How much longer, Nigel?”

  “Three quarters of an hour.”

  The familiar sights met her eyes in the girls’ dressing-room – Lyn pacing the floor like a caged lioness; Vicky limbering up, holding on to a chair; and Maddy screwed up into a tight little ball, sitting on a chair with her face on her knees.

  “Come on,” Sandra said calmly, “who’s going to be made up first? You, Vicky, because you’re easiest.”

  She gave her a normal, beautifying make-up and told her to hurry and dress, so there would be no need to dash at the last minute. Lyn was made up with scarlet lips, white face, with a trace of colour high on the cheekbones; but try as she might Sandra could get no resemblance between her and Maddy as brother and sister. She gave Maddy a sunburnt face, and was just about to settle down to her own make-up when Vicky said, “Good Lord, you’re not going to leave the child like that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Look at the child’s lily-white arms and feet.” And Sandra had to use nearly all the stick of sunburn tint on her sister’s fair limbs.

  Her own make-up was not easy, as she was supposed to be getting on for forty, and by the time she had reduced her face to a harassed and lined but faintly beautiful condition, there were only another ten minutes before the end of the play the Hanston Dramatic Class were performing.

  Lyn, in her ballet dress, hurried distractedly up and down the room, despite her shaking knees. She knew that if she could only act well there would be a better chance of their winning, but if she was still feeling as she did now, it would be impossible. But it was essential that they should win. They must, they must, they must! She murmured the words aloud.

  “What did you say, Lyn,” asked Sandra.

  “Nothing. Sandra, do you feel all right?”

  “I don’t feel as bad as I did before our first concert. Remember?”

  “Don’t I!”

  The next few minutes were filled by reminiscing, but when they stopped, the clock still showed five minutes to go.

  “Come on. Let’s get into the wings.”

  They put on their cloaks, either party or Spanish Inn ones, and went along to the boys’ dressing-room. Nigel and Bulldog were smoking. Sandra eyed them with disapproval.

  “Don’t be sick, Bulldog, for goodness’ sake.”

  “I hope you haven’t had any cigarettes, Jerry,” said Lyn. “You know that they always upset you.”

  “Oh, you women!” grumbled Nigel. “You even grudge us our simple pleasures. What’s that stink?”

  “Maddy eating peppermints for her nerves.”

  “Thank goodness I don’t have to make love to her.”

  Suddenly all their banter seemed meaningless and futile, and they were silent. Lyn looked at everyone as if seeing them for the first time.

  “We’ll win,” she said simply, “if we’re meant to.”

  They nodded agreement.

  “Come on,” said Jeremy, without making any movement towards the door.

  They seemed rooted to the spot. Then a knock at the door, and the manager stood on the threshold, holding out a note.

  “The other play is just ending. Good luck again.”

  Nigel opened the note.

  “Act well, Blue Doors,” it read. “We shall clap our hardest,” and was signed by the Bells, the bishop, and their parents.

  Maddy laughed softly. “How kind of them!”

  “Come on,” said Sandra. “Don’t forget the backcloth and tacks.”

  The corridor to the wings was bare and draughty and echoed with the applause given for the play that had just ended. The boys hurried on to the stage with a step-ladder and hung the backcloth, while the Hanston Dramatic Class came off, laughing and talking. Miss Hanston, their producer, looked hard at the girls as they stood, arms linked, in the wings.

  “Who is your producer?” she asked them, in a kind but patronizing tone.

  “I am,” said Lyn sweetly, looking about six in her ballet frock, and Miss Hanston asked in surprise, “Are you from some school, then?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You’re not professionals, I hope,” she said with distaste, glancing at Vicky’s legs, which were typically of the ballet.

  “Oh no, we’re still amateur.”

  “Come on, Sandra and Maddy,” called Nigel.

  They sighed and took up their places, Sandra sitting on the steps, Maddy cross-legged at her feet, whittling a stick. As Jeremy passed, on his way to the wings, she caught his hand.

  “Oh, Jerry!…”

  “You’ll be all right, Maddy. You look splendid; a real little tough.”

  “I can’t remember a word,” murmured Sandra, bringing out her knitting. Since they stared rehearsing she had done nearly a whole scarf.

  “Ready, Maddy?”

  Maddy settled herself more comfortably.

  “O.K.”

  Sandra nodded across to the man who was working the curtain. It rose, displaying the vast expanse of “wondering upturned eyes of mortals”. Maddy and Sandra had a shock when a burst of clapping broke out. The audience were showing their approval of the painted caravan. It was by far the best piece of scenery in the contest. Maddy threw down her stick and yawned loudly, stretching like a puppy.

  “You are tired, my Bobby?”

  “Gosh yes, Aunt Annette.”

  And the play was swinging on its way in the words and actions that they knew so well and had become a part of their lives. Bobby, leaning against Annette’s knee, begged her to sing to him. She sang to the tune of Brahms’ “Lullaby” an old French rhyme; while she did so Vicky, as Jennifer, entered, asking Annette if she could see Saddler, and inquiring for Peter. As Saddler was supervising the sawdusting of the ring Bobby was sent to fetch the tent-hand.

  “Peter,” she cried, and flung herself into his arms.

  They walked into one of the down-stage corners, talking about her idea of doing acrobatics for Saddler to see if she was good enough to join the circus.

  Annette, overhearing, said loudly, “Join this circus, this camp of miserable dogs? Sapristi!”

  Then she clapped a hand over her mouth as Saddler made his entrance, aggressively superior.

  “Peter,” he roared, “what is the rule about bringing women to the caravans?”

  But Jennifer stepped bravely up to him, and told him what she had come for. He growled that he did not want any more women on his hands, but said he would see her. She slipped off her skirt and handed it to Peter with her hand-bag, and politely asked if she might use the steps. Annette and Bobby moved off, and she began to twist and turn into her complicated contortions.

  Roma Seymore whispered to the president, “I fear this is going to turn into a variety show. She’s very good, though.”

  “And young,” he remarked. “I wonder if they’re all juveniles?”

  After a final whirl of cartwheels, Vicky as Jennifer mounted the second step, and facing the caravan, bent back till her hand grasped the first step, then walked down till she reached the ground. She heard the gasp from the audience, and so mounted a second time on to the third step. As she bent back, she saw first the tangle of ropes and pulleys on the floor, then the players upside down, then, finally, the bottom step and the ground.

  She strained the muscles of her abdomen; she stayed arched, with hands not touching the floor, and suddenly she remembered her old ambition, the acrobatic feat she had tried so many times and failed to perform.

  She would do it now or never. She relaxed her stomach muscles for a second, kicking with her legs. For a brief second she was in the air, t
hen her hands, giving at the wrists to break the shock, came into contact with the boards of the stage, and her feet followed a second later. She stood up amazed and triumphant. The others only just remembered in time that to circus folk this would not seem marvellous. It seemed so to the audience. They clapped vigorously, and Vicky was about to bow to them when she saw Lyn in the wings shaking her head.

  Saddler gave his permission for her to join the circus, and off-stage Bulldog started up a blaring record of a military band. Saddler strode off to officiate in the ring, roaring at Peter to go and help in the stables. Left with Annette, Jennifer heard all about her sad life.

  “What do you think of them?” asked the president.

  “They’re good, very good. Look, she’s really crying,” and Sandra was, easily, but controlledly, as she told of how she had left the life on the Continent that she adored. Roma Seymore glanced at her programme for the author of the play, and saw to her amazement, “by the company”.

  It was time for Lyn, as Pearl, to make her entrance. She had lost her nervousness now, after seeing the others getting on so well. She ran across to Bobby, and kissing him, said, “Wish me luck, Bobby. I’m riding Starlock tonight.”

  Only a few simple words, spoken with a Cockney accent; but Roma sat forward, electrified, recognizing the movement and timbre of an actress. During the conversation between the three girls and Bobby she had eyes only for Pearl, and at her exit to appear in the ring she clapped loudly. There had been a wonderful representation of fear in her dark eyes when she told Jennifer that Saddler was “a devil in riding-breeches”. Annette explained to Jennifer that Pearl was Bobby’s sister, and that they were orphans, and Bobby was training as a trapeze artist. At this moment Jock solemnly somersaulted in. Annette informed Jennifer that he always moved in this manner from force of habit. He doffed his hat solemnly to the women and stopped and chatted, adding to the list of wrongs committed by Saddler. There were tears in his voice as he said, “And so I have only got my dream cottage in my head. When Saddler insults me, I mentally retire and water my hollyhocks; and when Saddler strikes me, I plant another marrow. It’s all I can do, you see – all I can do.” He somersaulted away, amid applause.

  Saddler, hurrying in, tripped over him and struck him angrily with his whip. He stood with bowed head, listening to the string of abuse, then somersaulted away. Saddler strode across to Bobby.

  “Move yourself, young ’un,” he snarled. “You’re going on the trapeze; young Franz is ill.” He gave the frightened child a kick. “Get up. You’re going on the high trapeze, my lad.”

  Annette jumped up. “Samuel, no!” She caught his arm. “You cannot do this. The child, he has not used it before. He will slip. Oh, Samuel, you must have pity.”

  He flung her away and towered over Bobby, who shrank away from him.

  “Go on, you brat!”

  Bobby burst into tears; they were real and rolled down his cheeks; he heaved with sobs. The theatre was stirred with the flick of sympathetic feminine handkerchiefs. Saddler caught Bobby by the arm, and was dragging him off as he howled hysterically when Pearl entered. In one movement she stood between ringmaster and her brother.

  “Watcher think yer doing with my brother?”

  “He’s doing the high trapeze tonight, if I have to kill him to make him,” snarled Saddler angrily.

  “I’ll kill you first, you big bully!” cried Pearl.

  “Pearl! Be careful,” gasped Annette.

  Saddler twisted her arm behind her, led her to his wife, saying, “Hold her, Annette, and if you let her go – you’ll suffer.” He led off the still screaming Bobby. Annette comforted Pearl as she sobbed on her shoulder, then they all jumped up alarmed, hearing something.

  “What was that?”

  “It came from the tent.”

  Jock, the clown, came running on, gasping and horrified, to impart the news that Bobby had fallen, but was still alive as the safety net had caught him.

  “I must go to him,” said Pearl.

  “A doctor is there. He was in the audience,” informed Jock.

  “I’ll go and make up Bobby’s bunk for him then.” Pearl hurried off.

  When Saddler came back he informed them that the doctor had taken Bobby away in his car, and was going to put him into an orphanage when he recovered. The he went up the steps and into the caravan. Pearl came back crying, “Why haven’t they brought him to the van?” and they had to tell her.

  “They’ve taken away my little Bobby.” Her heart-broken voice was more moving than tears.

  Peter came on, shouting joyfully, “The tent’s down, and we go on tonight, and you come with us, Jenny.” He took her hands.

  “No, Peter.” And she told him that the things she had seen that night made her realize that she could not lead a life under Saddler. There was a sad parting scene.

  When she had gone, Peter shouted, “Saddler must pay for these things!”

  “Hear, hear!” murmured the others, and plotted a revolt in angry undertones. Then the caravan door opened and Saddler stood, proud and dominating, on the steps.

  “We move on tonight. Go to your caravans,” he told them in stentorian tones.

  To a man they moved off, lurking in the shadows till he closed the door, then forward they came.

  “Why, why, why,” cried Annette, “does he treat us like this?”

  “Why do we put up with it?” asked Peter brokenly.

  “We belong to Saddler’s Circus…” said Pearl dully.

  “A riot of fun and splendour,” added Jock, and they laughed, softly at first, then rising to a crescendo of mirthless hilarity. They split their sides, but it was not infectious laughter, and the audience gripped the sides of their seats.

  “What actors!” murmured Roma Seymore as the curtain fell.

  Nigel ran down the steps to the others, and they danced madly round, hugging each other, till the curtain man told them he was going to raise the curtain for their bows. Amid thunderous applause they acknowledged the appreciation of the audience. Their parents were waving and smiling from the front row of the balcony.

  “Roma is clapping,” whispered Maddy, doffing her cap so that her pigtail escaped.

  “My goodness,” gasped Roma, “I thought it was a little boy!”

  “And so did I!” The president leaned forward. “By jove, that was good make-up and characterization.”

  The local secretary laughed. “I could have told you that was little Maddy Fayne.”

  “How old is the one that played the ringmaster?”

  “About seventeen or eighteen, but still at school. He’s the eldest.”

  “Well, well, well, this is extraordinary!”

  Roma wrote in her notebook as the curtains swished to and fro across the smiling seven.

  “So young,” was on everybody’s lips, and the parents were revelling in the flow of compliments from the people behind, who did not know their connection with the actors. At last the audience let them go. They described to each other in detail their feelings and emotions, and all congratulated Vicky on her acrobatic triumph.

  “It came suddenly,” she explained, “and I just had to.”

  “It was O.K., wasn’t it?” said Sandra eagerly. “They like us.”

  “But have we won? Have we beaten the Fenchester Teachers?” Nigel wrinkled his brow anxiously.

  “It all depends now on Roma Seymore, whether she prefers comedy or tragedy. I think the applause was equal.”

  The corridor was suddenly filled with members of the other companies.

  “Come on,” they said, “Roma wants us all on the stage. She’s going to give out the results.”

  They hurried into the dressing-rooms and put on their everyday clothes, washed their face, and did their hair.

  “I begin to feel less brutal,” said Nigel, as he removed his moustache with cold cream.

  “Do we look tidy?” Sandra inspected them before they went on to the crowded stage. Chairs were standing in lines faci
ng the audience, and they took places in the back row. Mrs. Potter-Smith turned round to say, “Oh, my dears, you don’t know how melancholy you’ve made us feel. Everyone says that they’d have nervous breakdowns if they had to sit through your perfectly agonizing play again. I do hope you win!”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Potter-Smith. You’re sure to win,” said Lyn with her tongue, metaphorically, in her cheek. “How could we beat your amazingly fantastic play? Impossible!”

  At this moment in the hostilities Roma came on; she had not forgotten how to make a graceful and charming entrance. First of all the mayor spoke a few halting but genial words, then the president. Then Roma rose.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot tell you how much pleasure it has given me to be here tonight.”

  In her perfect carrying voice she went on to pay compliments to the audience, the mayor, and the manager of the theatre.

  “And now, the results! I will begin at the bottom, so that the pleasantest moments may be left till last. The company to whom I give least points must not feel hurt, as it made a gallant effort, but has a lot to learn. I speak of the St. Michael’s Ladies’ Institute.” Mrs. Potter-Smith’s fat back heaved. “The chief reason for its failure to reach the standard of the others lay in the choice of play. The characters were quite unsuited to the ladies’ ages and shapes. Now, please don’t take this as an insult. It was such a bad choice of play that I cannot really judge the dramatic ability of the players. I must say, that had this company acted the play performed by the Blue Doors their success might have been greater. The lady who played the statue would have been far more convincing as the circus-owner’s wife.”

  “Does she think I didn’t?” wondered Sandra anxiously.

  A slow flush was spreading over the back of Mrs. Potter-Smith’s neck.

  “I allotted twenty marks to this company; ten for scenery, which was quite colourful, five for audibility, which was good on the whole, and five for keeping on when they must have sensed that the play had fallen flat.”

  She went on with her criticisms, which were clever and witty, with many subtle digs that amused the audience.

  The Church Lads’ Brigade received fifty points from the hundred, and St. Anne’s Amateurs fifty-two. Fenchester Amateurs came next with sixty, and a good deal of praise, then the Hanston Dramatic Class with sixty-five. The Blue Doors, holding hands and sucking peppermints to keep calm, expected to hear their name at any minute.