A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

  ‘And I hated Cubs,’ Ben reminded her. ‘Isn’t Brownies all campfires and hiking? That isn’t Thea’s style.’

  ‘Then how about cooking? There’s a children’s cooking class at one of the hotels. They do adult classes too. They’ve got a special on making the perfect Christmas dinner. I thought I might do that one myself.’

  Newbay’s hotels were all diversifying and offering cooking classes and workshops in a desperate attempt to keep their kitchens busy through the off-season.

  ‘We could do it together. All three of us. Then you and Thea can be in charge of the turkey.’

  ‘I’ll look into it, Mum, I promise.’

  Though how Ben would find the time to work on improving Thea’s social life, he didn’t know. His business seemed to require his attention almost as much as a second child. He was in the shop nearly all the time. When Thea should have been having swimming lessons or learning to play the euphonium, she could be found sitting at the back of the store, reading or drawing. She said that’s what she liked to do and Ben believed her – as a child, he’d loved nothing more than reading – but perhaps Judy was right. Thea needed to be encouraged to move outside her comfort zone. Meet other children outside school. Make some real friends. She couldn’t go through her childhood sharing her secrets only with her grandmother’s dog.

  As Ben watched, Thea got up and brushed herself off. Buster, who seemed reassured by this that Thea had not been too badly hurt by her fall, retrieved the ball. He dropped it at her feet and assumed the position that told her he was ready to play. Head low to the ground. Bottom high. Much wagging.

  Thea pulled her arm back as far as it would go, ready to hurl the ball right out of the garden. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration.

  ‘Ready, Buster?’ she asked the dog. ‘A-one, a-two, a-three …’

  Thea almost left the ground with the effort of that throw and yet somehow the ball still fell straight down and landed between her muddy trainers. Even Buster looked disappointed.

  ‘Oh, Thea,’ Ben thought to himself. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  Just then, she turned towards the kitchen window. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and beamed a huge smile. Ben couldn’t help grinning right back at her.

  Chapter Three

  The Newbay Theatre Society – NEWTS for short – had been around for far longer than any of its members. That said, Trevor Fernlea, the committee chairman, was rumoured to be knocking on a hundred, though he still insisted he could play ‘thirty to sixty’ and, indeed, had just wowed the local critics with his portrayal of that hunky young thruster Mercutio in the society’s production of Romeo and Juliet. And not only because his trousers split during a sword fight.

  The society was especially blessed in that it had its very own theatre, created in the shell of an old Methodist hall, thanks to a bequest from one of its early members, the sainted Miss Chorley (the NEWTS’ first Juliet). The conversion, which had taken place in the mid nineteen-eighties, was innovative and creative, turning the disused and almost derelict chapel into a two hundred and fifty-seat raked auditorium with a storage area for props, two rehearsal rooms, two dressing rooms, an enormous wardrobe, a box office and a tea-room/fully licensed bar. It greatly amused the players and their audience to treat themselves to an after-show tipple beneath a Victorian painting extolling the virtues of temperance. John Wesley would have turned in his grave.

  Thirty years after the conversion, the theatre was looking a little shabby but goodness only knew when there would be time for a proper renovation beyond the annual dab of paint on the damp spots. The details of the bequest that allowed for the creation of the theatre in the first place stipulated that the NEWTS perform a programme of at least six shows a year. Thus the little theatre was always busy.

  Every single night of the week, something was happening somewhere in the building. There were performances, rehearsals, costume fittings, dance classes, committee meetings. Not to mention the Thursday Club – the group of pensioners who met in the theatre bar every Tuesday afternoon to discuss the arts. They originally met on a Thursday – hence the name – but in recent years the day had been changed because it clashed with the local cinema’s special senior citizen matinees. Trevor Fernlea’s lectures couldn’t compete with £2.99 for tea, a Penguin and Tom Hiddleston as Loki. Or Tom Hiddleston as just about anything. The Thursday Club was all a-flutter about his full-frontal nudity in High Rise for months.

  The NEWTS drew its membership from a diverse section of Newbay society. The Thursday Club was at one end of the spectrum. At the other end, the children’s drama group was always busy. On a Saturday morning, the theatre was more like a crèche as forty or fifty under-twelves were put through their theatrical paces and the auditorium rang with their laughter and shouts. There was fierce competition for places in the children’s group because it was considerably cheaper than the local childminders’ services. Strangely, the parents’ enthusiasm for the group did not translate into enthusiasm for letting their children take part in any actual shows that might mean turning out of an evening when Strictly was on.

  The youth group, which met on Thursday nights, was renowned throughout the county as a hotbed of impressive talent. Several former NEWTS had gone on to drama school. One was a regular on EastEnders. News of her success had spread throughout Devon and made NEWTS’ youth group the place to be for aspiring actors from every corner of the county. If you were casting a show that needed actors between the ages of twelve and eighteen, the NEWTS provided a very rich seam of potential.

  Unfortunately, what generally happened was that when they hit eighteen, the youth group members drifted off to other towns for college or university. A few might show up again at the end of their degrees, when fruitless job searches and shaky finances forced them back to the family nest, but it was a matter of time before they would find jobs and boyfriends and girlfriends and go travelling and get mortgages and be swept up by marriage and children. As a result, there was a dearth of NEWTS between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five. No matter how much effort the NEWTS put into recruitment, it was an age group that simply didn’t have the time.

  After that, it was a different story. Membership picked up again considerably for the forty-five plus group. People joined the society as something to do once their children left home. Or their spouses left home … NEWTS had an unfounded reputation as being a cosy alternative to Tinder. And once you were past retirement age, membership numbers absolutely rocketed. Especially among the women. If you were casting an all-female stage version of Cocoon – that film set in an old people’s home – you were in luck. If you weren’t …

  The society’s demographics meant for some extremely interesting casting. Trevor Fernlea’s turn as swashbuckling young tyke Mercutio was far from unusual. In the NEWTS’ performance of The Graduate, the actress playing Mrs Robinson was younger than her supposed student swain by ten years. So Jon had his work cut out when it came to casting Cinderella. Especially since all the elderly regulars wanted to be in the Christmas show. It was always the biggest, brightest and most-fun-to-be-in performance of the year.

  Thank goodness it wasn’t quite so important to be realistic in a pantomime. There was comedy value in casting someone whose physical attributes were at glaring odds with the part. However, Jon was determined to assemble a cast with whom he could work in exactly the way he wanted. He didn’t want anyone too set in his or her ways. For that, read anyone in their eighties.

  But needs must. The NEWTS was no Club 18-30. In late October, Trevor Fernlea popped a couple of extra statins and auditioned to play Prince Charming.

  Chapter Four

  Kirsty was mightily relieved when Jon let Trevor Fernlea down by telling him that while it was no longer fashionable to have a girl play the pantomime’s ‘principal boy’, Jon had decided to draw heavily on tradition for his production and would thus be casting a woman as the prince.

  This was a political move on Jon’s part.
As expected, far more women than men turned up to the auditions and Jon had to offer the ladies at least some possibility they would find a part in a play that was surprisingly low on female roles. The reality was, however, that the prince had been cast in Jon’s mind from the moment he arrived back in Devon.

  Choosing Kirsty for Cinderella was not without controversy. Though no one could doubt her abilities – on her first visit to the NEWTS’ theatre, she raised the old church roof with her rendition of ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Mis – the fact was, Kirsty was a newcomer. Naturally, people were going to be a little put out when she waltzed in and took the plum role, no matter how good she was.

  It was for that reason Jon had really decided to reinstate the tradition of having a female principal boy. It meant he could give a substantial part to the player who would almost certainly have been Cinderella had Kirsty not appeared. Lauren Whitwell.

  Lauren was the darling of the NEWTS. Nine times out of ten, Lauren got the female lead in any NEWTS production. She was Alice in Alice in Wonderland, Dorothy in The Wizard Of Oz. She was Snow White. She was Sleeping Beauty. She was Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (though that was a disaster. Never had a prompt been so busy). Cinderella should have been hers. She was a panto princess incarnate.

  It helped that Lauren was a quasi-celebrity. She was a weather girl on local television, bringing news of sunshine or showers to the whole of Devon every weekday morning at nine. At twenty-eight, she was still the ideal ‘girl next door’, with her big brown eyes, dazzling white smile and swishy chestnut ponytail. Think Cheryl Tweedy before that awful incident in the nightclub loos.

  But Jon did not rate Lauren’s talent for musical theatre. He never had, he told Kirsty. Jon and Lauren had shared a stage back when they were both members of the NEWTS’ youth group. She hadn’t been able to hold a tune then and, despite numerous singing lessons, she still struggled. Lauren had risen through the ranks at NEWTS by virtue of three things: the general attrition of good actresses as the youth group aged, her looks (which, Jon admitted, were especially good for Newbay) and the fact she could be seen on television five days a week.

  There was no doubt Lauren’s fame was a tremendous draw for NEWTS’ target audience, who liked nothing better than to sit in the front row with their hearing aids turned too low, speculating loudly, ‘Isn’t she that one off the telly?’ Singing and acting talent didn’t come into it with Lauren. They didn’t have to.

  So Lauren was to play Prince Charming. When Jon telephoned to let her know, she was unimpressed. But he soon managed to convince her that the prince was the role she was born for.

  ‘Everyone knows you can play a princess, Lauren. This is your opportunity to show you have range. All the best actresses embrace the chance to play across the genders. When I think of you as Prince Charming, I’m envisaging you as Newbay’s answer to Tilda Swinton, bringing an ethereal androgyny to the piece. You will transcend the usual parameters of pantomime to bring true art to your role …’

  ‘Well, I did like Tilda Swinton in Lord of the Rings,’ said Lauren. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Jon didn’t bother to point out that Lauren had mixed up Tilda with Cate Blanchett. Lauren wouldn’t get within a barn door of either actress’s talent. He was just relieved she hadn’t cried.

  Kirsty, who was listening when Jon made the call, shook her head at the power of Jon’s terrible charm. He really could talk anyone into anything. When Kirsty saw, or heard, him turn on the charm for someone else, she guiltily admitted to herself that it made her fancy him even more.

  ‘But Tilda Swinton?’ she said to him. ‘It’s a pantomime, Jon.’

  ‘It’s my pantomime,’ he reminded her. ‘It’s going to be the best panto ever.’

  Kirsty didn’t doubt it. Self-confidence was another one of Jon’s super-powers.

  Once Lauren had been dealt with, the rest of the casting was not so fraught with risk. The Ugly Sisters were to be played by two brothers who had been with the NEWTS since they were teens.

  The brothers – George and Andrew Farmer – actually had show business day jobs. After a fashion. Under the stage name The Giggle Twins, they appeared all over the county at children’s parties, performing a hybrid clowning/magic act. With their signature yellow bowl-cut wigs and their ‘hilarious’ clown-style wide trousers, they made The Chuckle Brothers seem almost normal. When they were in costume, you’d be hard-pressed to choose two people you’d be less keen to sit between at a dinner party. But they were well-versed in the sort of clowning the role of a dame required. They were perfect for playing the Uglies.

  The part of the Ugly Sisters’ mother, Cinderella’s stepmother the Baroness Hardup, was given to Annette Sweeting.

  Annette was a woman of a certain age – indeterminate thanks to the judicious use of Botox – known to most of the NEWTS as ‘the Black Widow’ on account of her having had three husbands. The husbands, all sadly deceased, had left Annette with a fabulous collection of engagement rings, a Bentley and the biggest house in Newbay – a double-fronted Georgian number with fabulous sea-views.

  The house, the car and Annette’s Joanna Lumley-esque air of glamour did not win her many female friends. She was the subject of much gossip. It was a popular pastime of some of the less-generous ladies of the society to speculate as to whom Annette might be lining up as husband number four. Though they would never admit it, most of the male NEWTS secretly hoped they were in the running.

  For the purposes of the pantomime, Vince Churchill would play Annette’s husband.

  Vince was a real kingpin in the local social scene. He was big chap full of bonhomie, who was a regular volunteer in the NEWTS’ theatre bar (drinking twice as much as he sold). He was a dentist by profession and almost all the NEWTS had been in his chair at one point or another. Rumour was he often went to his surgery smelling of booze, with hands shaking like a Chihuahua left out in the rain, but since he still did NHS work, his patients were prepared to overlook the possibility of the odd slip with a drill.

  Vince’s real wife Bernadette Churchill – Bernie for short – was everyone’s favourite for Fairy Godmother. Though she and Vince had no children of their own, Bernie had a maternal warmth that drew everybody to her. She had one of those faces that always seems on the edge of a smile. Bernie was an accountant and, as well as acting in many of the NEWTS’ productions over the years, she oversaw the company’s financial affairs and made sure everyone paid their dues. Of all the NEWTS Kirsty met in her first few weeks in Newbay, Bernie was the warmest and the easiest to see as a potential friend.

  Last but not least, Trevor Fernlea, who had been so cruelly disappointed in his bid to play Prince Charming, was cast as Cinders’ beloved sidekick Buttons. Kirsty grimaced when Jon told her about that.

  ‘But Buttons is meant to be Cinderella’s childhood friend,’ she pointed out. ‘Trevor is at least three times my age.’

  ‘And he’s the chair of the committee,’ Jon reminded her. ‘And he has his own costume.’

  Kirsty was learning that in the amateur-dramatic world being able to dress the part went a long way towards actually getting the part. The Giggle Twins had their own comedy wigs. Annette had a collection of thigh-high boots that would be perfect for the dominatrix look Jon envisaged for her part. And after half a century as a NEWT, Trevor Fernlea’s personal wardrobe contained just as many military uniforms, Elizabethan collars and space helmets as ordinary suits. Naturally he had the perfect outfit for Buttons. He told Jon he would be repurposing the costume he’d had made for playing the butler to the Von Trapp family for the NEWTS’ performance of The Sound of Music. In 1984.

  ‘It still fits,’ he said proudly. ‘I work hard on keeping trim. Do you think I should grow a moustache for this production?’ he asked then. ‘Might be a nice touch.’

  ‘Promise me there is no point in the script at which I have to kiss him,’ said Kirsty.

  So that was it. The players were assembled. A cast list was pinned to the notic
eboard in the main rehearsal room, where it soon gained some unflattering annotations.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Jon said, when Kirsty noted that someone had altered her surname, which was Watson, to ‘Fatson’. ‘It’s just one of the kids.’

  But Fatson? How could Kirsty not take that as a slight?

  ‘Seriously, don’t worry about it,’ said Jon. ‘They’ve changed my surname from Manley to Womanley. They’re just writing the first thing that comes into their heads.’

  Kirsty nodded but she couldn’t help wishing Jon had said something slightly different. Something along the lines of, ‘Well, you’re not fat, darling, so obviously the Fatson thing is totally random.’

  When the cast met in the bar to toast the fun ahead – courtesy of Vince, who bought champagne – Bernie was a little better at assuring Kirsty that it really wasn’t worth getting upset about.

  ‘It happens every time,’ she said. ‘I almost look forward to seeing what they’ll come up with next. You wait until the posters go up. Then you’ll see some proper creative vandalism. How do you look with a Hitler moustache?’

  ‘I can’t wait to find out,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Bernie. ‘That’s the spirit. Welcome to the NEWTS.’

  Chapter Five

  Rehearsals began in earnest on the first Saturday of November, the obscenely early opening day of Newbay’s ‘German’ Christmas fayre (the town’s Guy Fawkes’ celebrations took place on the very same day). Jon had wanted to start prepping the panto in the morning but Lauren, as a local celebrity, was required to cut the ribbon on the town’s biggest shopping event of the year. There was no point beginning without her.