Alice-Miranda Takes the Stage

by Jacqueline Harvey

  “Oh dear,” Alice-Miranda whispered. “Poor Hephzibah.”

  “Anyway, looks like you survived, miss. Now, we’d better get these ponies home. I’ll call Charlie, and let him know you’re safe and sound.”

  The group met at the stables. Alice-Miranda recounted the same story to Susannah and Charlie, who seemed satisfied with her explanation.

  Millie, Alice-Miranda and Susannah walked back to the house.

  “Well, you took your time getting back.” Sloane glanced up at the girls from where she was lying on the couch in the sitting room, rehearsing her lines for the audition. “Did you have a fall?”

  “Hello, Sloane,” Alice-Miranda began. “I am sorry about the ride. I know I said that I wouldn’t leave you at all, but my Bonaparte had other ideas, I’m afraid, and once he has a sniff of a vegetable patch, he’s pretty much unstoppable.”

  “Well, now that I know how unreliable you are, I won’t depend on you again.” Sloane buried her head in the script.

  Millie rolled her eyes. Susannah didn’t say a word but headed straight to her room.

  “Come on, Alice-Miranda,” Millie said. “Let’s go and get changed and then we can help each other learn our lines.”

  Sloane looked up and pouted. “I need someone to practice with too. Jacinta’s off doing stupid gymnastics training or something. Anyone would think she wants to go to the Olympics.”

  “She does,” Millie replied.

  “She does what?” asked Sloane, pulling a face.

  “Want to go to the Olympics.”

  “She’s incredible and I’m sure that she’ll get there. She trains almost every day.” Alice-Miranda smiled.

  “Whatever.” Sloane flicked her hand dismissively. “I need someone to rehearse with.”

  “We’re busy,” Millie informed Sloane as she grabbed her friend’s hand and headed for their room.

  “We could include Sloane, you know,” Alice-Miranda said to Millie as they were getting changed.

  “She’s awful,” Millie replied. “I thought Alethea was spoiled and horrible, but Sloane’s just as foul.”

  “I’m sure she’s just getting used to being at school, that’s all,” Alice-Miranda replied. “Don’t you remember what it’s like being the new girl?”

  “Well, I hope I was never like her.” Millie frowned.

  Alice-Miranda and Millie spent the rest of the afternoon in all manner of poses and positions, learning their parts for the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs auditions. Alice-Miranda decided she would try for the lead as well as some of the supporting roles, while Millie had her heart set on either Doc or the Magic Mirror.

  Later that evening, Alice-Miranda skipped off to call her parents.

  “Hello, Mummy, how are you?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, darling—and how are you finding things back at school?” her mother fussed.

  “Wonderful, Mummy—so please don’t start crying. You know that I’m perfectly all right and if you cry, I won’t call you anymore,” Alice-Miranda scolded.

  “Oh, don’t be cross. Anyway, I have some marvelous news for you, sweetheart,” her mother offered. “You know that Lawrence had made some inquiries about getting Lucas into Fayle? Well, first he was told that there were no spots at all and Lucas would have to go on the waiting list—which I think, between you and me, he didn’t mind one bit. But Lawrence just called a little while ago and apparently there are twins leaving to do some traveling with their parents, so Lucas has a spot. He’ll be starting next week. In fact, I think he might be there tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s fantastic, Mummy. I can’t wait to tell Jacinta. She’ll be over the moon. Does that mean Aunt Charlotte and Lawrence will be bringing Lucas down? Will they have time to come and visit?” Alice-Miranda asked.

  “Of course, darling. I’ll phone Cha and let her know you’re looking forward to seeing them.”

  Alice-Miranda wanted to tell her mother about Hephzibah, but something told her that now was not the right time. She knew that her parents would want to help, but she didn’t know if Hephzibah was ready for the full force of the Highton-Smith-Kennington-Joneses just yet.

  She had promised to visit Caledonia Manor again and knew that the only way she could go would be to take a friend with her, as students were not allowed to ride on their own. Of course she would take Millie, but she’d wait for just the right moment to tell her. Hephzibah hadn’t asked to be kept a secret, but Alice-Miranda understood that there was something very special about her new friend—and just now, a strange feeling told her that their meeting would be best kept to herself.

  Instead, she spent a few minutes telling her mother all about the excitement the play was causing. “I’d better go, Mummy. Millie and I are rehearsing for the auditions. I’d love to have a role—then I’ll be able to see Lucas much more often.”

  “All right, darling. Love and hugs from Daddy and me, and Shilly just said to say hello and Dolly wants to know if you enjoyed the fudge.”

  Indeed, Alice-Miranda could hear Shilly and Mrs. Oliver calling out in the background.

  “Tell Mrs. Oliver that her fudge was the best ever,” Alice-Miranda replied. “Give everyone a big hug from me and I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.” She put the phone back into its cradle and ran off to find Jacinta and tell her the good news.

  In the late-afternoon sunshine, Smedley and September Sykes reclined on their brand-new lay-z lounges in their brand-new back garden, sipping brand-new champagne and indulging their fantasies about where they would take the children for vacation once Smedley’s brand-new property developing business took off.

  Although it wasn’t the warmest of days, September was working on her tan, in a terrifyingly tiny leopard-print bikini. Smedley gazed admiringly at his wife, who he worried spent rather more time at the beauty salon than he could currently afford. Being a vacuum cleaner salesman, even on the home shopping channel, did not exactly bring in the big bucks. But Smedley believed with great certainty that their fortunes were about to change.

  “Have you talked to the children today?” Smedley asked.

  “Yes, Sloane called this morning. She’s getting on soooo well with the other girls. I told her to make friends with that Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones child. Imagine us being invited to their mansion for the weekend! They must be almost the richest people in the whole country,” September babbled. “I haven’t spoken to Sep, but I’m sure he’s fine. I just hope he’s making some friends—that boy needs to get his head out of those dull old science textbooks and start paying attention to the important things in life, like whose father owns that gorgeous sky-blue Rolls-Royce I saw turning out of the Fayle driveway when I was dropping Sloane at school the other day.”

  “Don’t you worry about Septimus—he’s just a bit shy, that’s all. You keep working your magic, sweetheart, and I’m sure we’ll be top of everyone’s invitation list before long.” Smedley grinned, revealing a dazzling white smile to match that of his wife’s. A handsome man, Smedley had once harbored dreams of a career as a talk-show host. Unfortunately, things never quite happened the way he’d hoped and the closest he had come to being a TV star was plying his trade in vacuum cleaner technology on infomercials.

  “You know, we’d be much farther up the social ladder if your father hadn’t been such a dreadful cheapskate. The reading of his will was the most disappointing day of my life—fancy only leaving us his hideous old grocery shop and that poxy flat. I’d have thought a man of his supposed intelligence would have had some other investments,” September moaned.

  “Well, at least Stepmummy Henrietta’s taken care of the school fees,” Smedley said with a wink.

  “Yes, I suppose so, but I wish that wretched nursing home would stop calling. You know I haven’t got the time. I don’t look like this”—September paused to bounce her curls—“by sitting on my rear end all day. There’s the gym and the nail salon and the hairdresser and the beautician. And I think I should probably join the Villag
e Women’s Association too. I might be able to run some workshops for all the fashion victims around here.” September rolled her huge blue eyes. “Golden Gates phoned four times yesterday. Apparently the daft old bat’s been asking for some suitcase that was left in the shed at your father’s place. I don’t know where it is and I haven’t got the time to go looking. I’ve no idea what happened to any of that rubbish. For all I know, it went to the dump.”

  Smedley sighed and stood up. As he stalked off toward the shed at the far end of the garden, his mobile phone rang. He disappeared into the shed and reemerged with a large blue suitcase in his left hand, all the while continuing his conversation.

  September could only hear snatches of the exchange.

  “Yes, yes, that’s great. How much? Fantastic, I’ll put the money in the account tomorrow.” Her husband gave her the thumbs-up, then strode back toward the terrace, where she was sitting.

  September sat up. “What was all that, then?”

  “Everything’s a go for the offshore property deal.” Smedley put the suitcase down by the back door before picking up the champagne bottle and topping up both their glasses. “Won’t be long now until we’re living life in the fast lane.” He raised his glass and tried to chink it against September’s, except that it thudded instead, being made of plastic. “And I think that’s Stepmummy Henrietta’s suitcase.” He pointed at the battered leather bag.

  “Well, I haven’t got time to deliver it. You’ll have to take it. And you’d better be right about this deal, because I have just bought two pairs of designer jeans and a gorgeous leather jacket—and someone has to pay for them. I’ve got my eye on a new fridge with a built-in ice-maker, and you know we have to buy a fountain for the garden. I can’t possibly work anymore, what with the children and their hectic schedules,” September griped.

  Smedley had rather hoped that now that Septimus and Sloane were busy at boarding school, September might get a few odd modeling jobs here and there—but after what had happened earlier in the year, he was reluctant to bring up the subject again.

  A few months ago Smedley had heard about a new agency that was recruiting and had been stupid enough to read the ad aloud to her. “Models required! All ages, sizes, shapes and talents welcome.”

  September had gone very white for a moment and then flown into a blistering red rage. “You might as well say I’m a fat old cow with a head like a buzzard! Is that what you mean, Smedley?” she had screamed.

  “No, darling, of course not. It’s just that, well, you’re not quite the little thing you were before the children, now, are you? And I hear there’s very good money in catalog work for the more mature lady.”

  Smedley had dug himself a hole that took two whole months to get out of. No end of flowers and shoes, and shoes and handbags, and handbags and flowers had been able to thaw September’s icy mood until one day he walked into the kitchen and threw a set of car keys on the counter.

  “For you, darling.” He looked at the keys and glanced up at his wife.

  “If you think getting my car washed is going to see you back in the good books, Smedley Sykes, then you’re even thicker than I thought.”

  “Have a look at the keys, my lovely,” Smedley cooed. “I think you might find that the ‘car wash’ had rather a transforming effect.”

  September picked up the keys. She examined them carefully and realized that the key ring certainly wasn’t that of her old sedan.

  “Oh my gosh, Smedley, what have you done?” September squealed. “Is it new?”

  “Of course, darling. Nothing less would do for you, my sweetheart.” Smedley laid on the charm so thick you could have eaten it on toast for breakfast. He held out his arms, waiting for September to rush into his embrace. His wife, however, had other priorities, and ran straight past her husband to the garage to hug her new baby sports car.

  Smedley had hoped that would do the trick and might even encourage September to give the modeling another thought. Goodness knows, the jobs were hardly taxing and usually paid more money than he saw in a month. But she would have none of it, and he hadn’t been brave enough to mention it again, although he was thinking about it—a lot.

  Smedley sat back down beside his wife and pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

  “Smedley, is this deal really going to come off?” September glared. “I’m so sick of being poor. I just don’t deserve this life,” she wailed.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head, my lovely. Soon enough the Sykeses will have more money than God.”

  September smiled broadly. “But how do you know how much money God has?” she asked, tilting her head and looking thoughtful.

  “Oh, trust me, darling—I’m sure he has loads,” said Smedley.

  The Fayle school campus spread out over a thousand glistening acres, with magnificent Victorian buildings surrounded by sports fields, a swimming pool, a sailing lake and stables. From the road it was almost completely hidden from view, no doubt the result of clever planning by generations of gardeners. McGlintock Manor, named after its founder’s beloved wife, Helena Louise McGlintock, was renowned as the most beautiful of any school building in the country and had been extended over the years to house most of the classrooms and administration areas and the headmaster’s residence.

  Septimus could hardly believe his luck when he heard that his stepgrandmother Henrietta had arranged for him and his sister Sloane to go to boarding school. It had been his dream—and one that he’d shared with his beloved grandfather Percy on the rare occasions that he’d been allowed to visit and the even rarer ones he’d been able to stay the night. Three years ago, Septimus had pinned a list of schools he would have liked to attend to his bedroom wall, with Fayle being his first preference. He’d heard that it was an outstanding institution, where being smart was revered rather than reviled. And if there was one thing Septimus most certainly was, it was smart.

  In his family, Sep had always felt like the odd one out. The only person who truly understood him was Grandpa Percy, and now that he was gone, life seemed like a lonely place. Septimus adored reading—about science and history and politics. His mother, on the other hand, only ever flicked through the pages of Women’s Daily and Gloss and Goss, his father pored over the racing pages at the back of the newspaper, and his sister thought reading was something you only ever did if the television was on the blink. He loved his mother and father, but quite simply, he thought they could have been from another planet.

  So when Septimus arrived at Fayle, he found that it was even better than he had dreamt of. Although just twelve years of age, Sep had learned early the difference between what you hoped for and what you expected. While he hoped the students would be kind, the teachers brilliant and the school perfect, what he expected was very different.

  At his last school, on the very first day the kids had branded him Septic Sykes, and it had stuck. He expected the teachers at his new school to be strict in the extreme, perhaps even carrying canes or some other medieval devices of punishment. But so far, Fayle was different. No one said anything about his name. When he told the boys that everyone called him Sep, they believed him without question and Sep it was. And the teachers, while perhaps a little on the vague side, were incredibly knowledgeable and kind, with no sign of any instruments of torture. He couldn’t believe that there was absolutely nothing to be disappointed about—and that made him happier than he had been in his entire life.

  Now that he was a full-fledged member of Fayle, Septimus vowed to make the most of every minute. Within the first few days, he’d signed up for the school newspaper, the science club, the athletics squad and swimming training. At assembly, Professor Winterbottom announced that, for the first time in over ten years, Fayle would be teaming up with the girls from Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale to put on a play. Drama wasn’t something he had any experience with, but he was willing to give it a go all the same.

  On Saturday afternoon, Sep was on his way to the running track when the h
eadmaster called out to him from across the quadrangle.

  “I’d like a word, young man.” The professor walked toward him, peering over the top of his spectacles.

  Professor Wallace Winterbottom had been the headmaster at Fayle for a very long time. The school was his life and, although his long-suffering wife, Deidre, often hinted that she thought it might be time they took off and saw the world, Wallace was deaf to her suggestions. Deidre enjoyed school life too, but carried a long-held desire to visit the pyramids and Greece. In fact, she had an extensive list of places she wanted to see, which curiously enough she carried with her everywhere, in her right shoe.

  The three loves of Wallace’s life were Fayle, of course, his beloved West Highland Terrier named Parsley, and his wife, Deidre, possibly even in that order. He had started his teaching career at Fayle as a young English master and gained the role of head very early on. So, in all, he’d been at the school for more than forty years—almost a record, but not quite. Hedges, the gardener, beat him by a long shot, having started at age fourteen; he was now seventy-four and showing no signs at all of slowing down.

  “Yes, sir,” Septimus replied as he reached the old man.

  “We’ve got a new boy starting tomorrow and I was thinking he might go in with you,” Professor Winterbottom began. “Name’s Lucas Nixon. He’s had a rough trot lately, so I need someone who’ll look after the lad. Can I rely on you?”

  Sep nodded. “Of course, sir. I’d be pleased to have a roommate. It’s been a bit quiet.”

  “Very good. That will be all.” The professor came as close to a smile as anyone might ever have seen.

  Septimus was looking forward to the arrival of a roommate. He’d already made friends with several of the boys, and although he enjoyed his own company, it would be good to have someone to talk to after lights-out.

  “Guess who starts at Fayle tomorrow?” It was now Saturday evening and Alice-Miranda and Millie had just joined Jacinta in the dining room dinner line.