by Shea, Alan
‘’Bout as easy as falling off a swing, Al.’
I look at the others.
‘What about that then?’
But no one says a word.
The night is a jumble. Bright lights. Shadows. On stage, acrobat words tumble. Veronica, George and the others juggle them. The audience laughs and applauds. I stand at the back. In the darkness. Look over their heads. Part of it all, yet separate from it. Two worlds. One real. One imaginary. The dark and the light. The question is, which is which?
As I listen, words become real. The characters I imagined – pictured – take shape. Not just in my head, but in the spotlight as well. Now Veronica and George are not my friends, they are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. They feast on the laughs. Grow fat with confidence. Unfurl the plot like a flag. Roll words like dice, daring the audience to guess what numbers they’ll land on.
A few people laugh. Makes it all worthwhile. The play goes on. My mind flits in and out. One scene after another. The story unfolds.
Backstage, Gary rings his bicycle bell. Veronica picks up the cardboard telephone. ‘Yes . . . yes. . . OK, put him on. It’s the police for you, Holmes.’
George takes the telephone. ‘Speaking. No, not at all. No trouble. I’ll do anything I can to help the poor people of Fiction Land. Go on, Inspector. I assure you I’m unshockable. Yes, Jack and Jill? Of course I’ve heard of them. They’re refusing to do what? Go up the hill? Little Miss Muffet? Isn’t she that delightful little lady who is so frightened of spiders?’ George puts this look of horror on his face. ‘She’s doing what? Pulling their legs off?’
Veronica says, ‘But Holmes, that’s . . . homicide.’
‘No, old friend . . . insecticide.’
Lots of people groan. I join them, then remember I wrote it and go red in the dark. Characters come and go. Scenes change. I find myself thinking of Reggie again. Wish he was here to share this.
32
The last bow
Then suddenly, like waking from a dream, it’s the last scene. Gary and Denis sweep the spotlight on to the cast. The cast take a bow. Norman has a smile a mile wide. Doesn’t look like Norman. Looks handsome. Not a knitted stitch in sight.
Applause rattles like rain. There are cheers and whistles. The hall lights come on. A sea of faces emerges from the dark. Mum. Mrs Gilbey. Just for an instant I think I see – no, it can’t be. If only . . .
Proud teachers mumble thanks. My name is called. Heads turn. I smile, embarrassed.
Then it’s all over, as if it had never happened. The audience drifts out in a scrape of chairs. Children discussing their favourite characters. Adults smiling. Thinking of the pub, or of other plays, long ago.
I make my way to the stage. Slip in through the curtains. Veronica, George and the others chatter amidst discarded costumes. Traces of make-up cling to red cheeks. Eyes are bright. We’re lost in a shower of words, everybody getting wet at the same time. Ping-ponging experiences. Courting praise.
‘I was rubbish.’
‘You weren’t, you were great!’
‘Did you notice I forgot my words?’
‘’Course not.’
‘Wasn’t it good when they all laughed at the bit where Popeye jumps when he sees his own shadow?’
‘Wasn’t it a great ending?’
‘Brilliant. Well done, Norman.’
‘Denis was good on the lights.’
‘Anybody check to see he didn’t take them home with him?’
We all laugh. Sister Bernadette and Miss Lacey join us. Miss Druce is with them. Everyone starts talking at once again. Saying the same things. Shouting. Laughing. I smile and nod at all my friends. The reason I’m here.
Then, like snow in spring, they melt away. Drift off. Back to families. To homes. Talking of what was. What is. What will be.
It seems strange. The hall is empty now. The ceiling lights weeping weakly into dark spaces. Shadows cobweb the corners. Everyone’s gone. I stand for a while in the silence and think. I call out my goodbyes to the empty space. Or is it empty?
Something moves in the far corner. The shadows part.
‘Norman? What you playing at? I don’t think that’s funny . . . Norman?’
But it’s not Norman. He leaves the shadow. Stands looking at me, that little grin turning his mouth downside up.
‘Reggie? Reggie, it’s you! Where’ve you been? What’s been going on? Why didn’t you tell me you were here? Why didn’t you come to the play?’
He smiles. ‘We did. It was brilliant. We’ve been here all the time. Thought it was best to keep out the way until everyone had gone.’
‘What d’you mean, we? Is Granddad with you?’
‘No. I got lucky for once, Alice. Law of averages. Remember?’
He moves aside. Behind him is a man. The man nods at me and smiles. He has curly red hair just like mine but a bit darker and cut very short, and he looks at me with the puzzled, amused look of the man in the photo.
‘I’ve brought someone to see you, Alice. Told you I would.’
The man takes a step forward. He holds out his hand awkwardly, as if he’s not sure what to do. I walk towards him. Stop.
We stand there looking at each other for a few seconds. Then he smiles, and suddenly I know I’ve found my dad at last. My real dad.
I try to talk but I can’t. It’s as if thirteen years of words are all trying to get out of my mouth at the same time. I feel my body start to shake.
I’m so happy. But the silly thing is, the really silly thing is that I start to cry. And as the tears roll down my cheeks, my dad puts his arms around me and holds me tighter and tighter, the three of us close together in the darkness.
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First published by The Chicken House, 2008.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2014.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN: 978-1-925065-15-2
Text copyright © Alan Shea, 2008.
Cover design by Steve Wells.
Typeset by Dorchester Typesetting Group Ltd.
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