A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

  ‘I mean,’ said Jon, during a tea break. ‘You expect celebs to be a bit self-obsessed but Lauren makes the Kardashians look positively modest.’

  ‘It’s not all her own face. Sometimes she takes a picture of avocado on toast. And I suppose it will be good for the show,’ said Kirsty. ‘She’s got a lot of followers.’

  It was quite extraordinary, the reach of Lauren’s celebrity. Who knew that twenty-five thousand people watched the local weather news? If even one per cent of those people wanted to see Lauren in the flesh and bought tickets to the show as a result, the NEWTS would be laughing.

  But Lauren didn’t have much of a sense of humour. Though they were only two rehearsals in, she was proving to be more difficult to handle than her carefully curated girl-next-door persona had suggested. Any hint of disagreement or disapproval from Jon and Lauren’s lip would start trembling. She would have to be allowed to sit in a corner, checking her Twitter and Instagram accounts for praise until she felt better again. Her posts at this time would be outrageous bids for public sympathy, scattered with hashtags such as #actingmyheartout and #sohard.

  Apparently Lauren was always like this when she was taking part in a show. Annette, who had worked with Lauren on A Midsummer Night’s Dream earlier that year, and had little patience for Lauren’s obsession with social media, took to ending her every scene by shouting out a hashtag parodying Lauren’s Twitter posts.

  ‘Hashtag nailed it.’

  ‘Hashtag professional actress.’

  At least it made the Giggle Twins laugh.

  Bernie would just shake her head. As she said to Kirsty over one break, in-jokes of that nature, which definitely came under the category of ‘laughing at’ rather than ‘laughing with’, were bad news.

  ‘These things always blow up right at the worst possible moment,’ Bernie said.

  At least Trevor Fernlea was concentrating on his part. He seemed oblivious to any sniggering from his cast-mates and was always keen to hear what Jon had to say about his performance, even when it wasn’t praise.

  Cinders and Buttons’ first song was no longer to ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’. Instead, Jon had reset his lyrics to the tune of ‘You Say Tomato’, which was much less controversial. Trevor soon ‘hashtag nailed it’, as Annette would say. It was unfortunate the same could not be said for his dancing. Trevor seemed incapable of waltzing without stepping on Kirsty’s feet. When Kirsty squeaked in indignation as he caught her toes yet again, Jon said, ‘Perhaps if your feet weren’t so long.’

  ‘I’ll have a couple of inches cut off, shall I?’ asked Kirsty. ‘It will help with my weight loss too.’

  Which made everybody laugh, at least.

  ‘You don’t need to lose weight,’ Trevor told her as they made a cup of tea in rehearsal room two while the Ugly Sisters and Baroness Hardup went over one of their dances.

  ‘Thanks, Trevor,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘You’re lovely just as you are. And that’s not Buttons talking,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you, Trevor. I appreciate it,’ Kirsty assured him.

  ‘If I were ten years younger …’

  ‘Try fifty,’ said Vince, who had been listening in with great amusement. ‘Hey, Jon!’ he shouted. ‘You wanna watch it. You’ve got competition! From Buttons!’

  Jon puffed out his chest and pantomimed the part of a jealous boyfriend, grasping Kirsty round the waist.

  ‘Watch yourself, Fernlea,’ he joked. ‘Everyone knows Buttons doesn’t get the girl.’

  Saturday soon rolled around: the day of the auditions for the pantomime’s chorus. The children’s call was in the morning. Adults in the afternoon.

  Though she wouldn’t have much say in who was chosen – that was down to Jon and his assistant Elaine, the production’s stage manager – Kirsty agreed with Elaine, who would also be in charge of the children, that it would be nice if she came along to meet the kids who turned up. Many of them would have to go home disappointed that they weren’t up to scratch. Having a chance to meet Cinderella might soften the blow.

  Elaine asked the Giggle Twins, as local celebs, if they would show up too. They declined. They were going clubbing on Friday night and had no intention of being fit for human company before Sunday afternoon’s rehearsal. Meanwhile, Lauren had to be in Exeter for a personal appearance at a charity fashion show raising funds for a local Alzheimer’s support group.

  ‘Lauren does quite a bit of fundraising work,’ Elaine explained. ‘She actually auctioned off half her wardrobe on eBay for Alzheimer’s research last year.’

  So, Kirsty would be the only ‘star’ there. It was a pity the costumes weren’t yet ready. In lieu of a princess frock, Kirsty pulled out one of her glitziest dresses. It was a rose-gold sequinned number she’d bought for formal nights at sea. As she held it up to herself in front of the mirror, she smiled at the memory of the times she had worn it to dinner and of dancing with happy cruise passengers who showered her with compliments for the dress and her singing.

  As she stepped into it, however, she realised it was not going to go on as easily as it once had. She frowned with disgust as she saw how the material creased across the front of her thighs. She thought she had been eating carefully. She’d certainly been doing plenty of racing around. How was it possible that she had put on even more weight?

  Jon came into the bedroom as Kirsty was standing there.

  ‘Need a hand with that zip?’ he asked.

  Kirsty told him no. The last thing she needed was to see the look on his face when the zip wouldn’t close as it should.

  ‘No,’ she said brightly. ‘I was going to wear this for the auditions but maybe it’s a bit over the top. Don’t want to intimidate any of the little ones by turning up looking like I’m off to the BAFTAs.’

  Jon didn’t question Kirsty’s excuse. She had the feeling he would be happier if she wore something more low-key anyway. Though he never usually failed to compliment her when she dressed up, the previous day he had complained about her habit of leaving clothes draped across a chair in the bedroom.

  ‘And everything you wear is so bright. It looks like an explosion in the staff changing room at Disneyland.’

  Kirsty waited until he had gone back out of the room before she wriggled out of the dress that now seemed as appealing as a sausage skin. She got back into her jeans. Her ‘fat day’ jeans and a pale-pink sweatshirt that wasn’t quite as clean as it might have been. Of course, she didn’t notice the stain on the front until they were at the theatre and she couldn’t come back home and change.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As was the case for so many children who would be at the audition, Kirsty’s own first experience of the theatre came with seeing a Christmas pantomime.

  She was five years old. It was New Year’s Day and a cold snap had covered much of the country with snow. Kirsty remembered sitting at the kitchen table with her mother, listening anxiously as the local radio news presenter read out a list of events that had been cancelled due to the adverse weather conditions. How her mother Nicole had beamed when the newsreader announced, ‘The matinee performance of Cinderella at the Sarajevo Theatre in the town centre will be going ahead.’

  ‘We’re on,’ she said. She pinched Kirsty’s cheeks. ‘Kirsty Watson, you will go to the ball.’

  ‘But how are we going to get there?’ her father Stu asked. ‘They might be opening the theatre, but the roads between here and there are all six inches deep. We can’t take the car out in that.’

  ‘Then we’ll walk,’ said Kirsty’s mother.

  ‘What?’

  ‘People have been walking in the snow for centuries, Stu. So can we.’

  And that’s exactly what they did. The three of them, all wrapped up in their new Christmas jumpers and scarves and hats and wearing wellies like they were off on a Polar expedition. They walked from their house to the theatre through the deserted snow-bound town. Kirsty managed very well, only asking to be carried
for the last quarter mile.

  Oh, but it was worth it. The theatre was warm and welcoming. The glow of the lobby, decorated with a real Christmas tree that nearly touched the ceiling, seemed especially magical after the walk through the largely empty streets. Those audience members who had made it greeted and congratulated each other on their endeavours. There was none of the usual reserve between strangers that afternoon. It was replaced by the laughter and camaraderie that comes of a shared experience.

  ‘Can’t let the children down,’ said Kirsty’s dad, drawing a wry smile from Nicole.

  Once they were into the auditorium itself, however, it became clear how few audience members had made the effort to get there. Back in November, when she booked the treat, Kirsty’s mother had bought the best seats she could afford, but they were still a long way from the stage. And though Kirsty was tall for her age, she couldn’t easily see over the seat in front, even when sitting on a pile of coats and her mother’s handbag. So they were delighted when the assistant stage manager came out in front of the curtains – which Kirsty now knew were called ‘tabs’ – and said, ‘If you see an empty seat you fancy more than the one you’re in, please feel free to move into it.’

  Kirsty’s mother took her by the hand and led her straight to the front row to bag three prime new places, leaving her dad to deal with their belongings.

  Before the performance began, Kirsty had been given strict instructions not to fidget or talk once the lights were dimmed and the curtain went up, but her parents need not have worried. Though she was still very young, Kirsty’s behaviour was exemplary due to the simple fact she was transfixed.

  From the moment Cinderella walked on from stage right, sweeping the floor ahead of her, Kirsty was lost in the fairytale world. It was so much more wonderful than she had ever imagined. The dresses, the scenery, the shimmering lights. The fairy godmother’s glittering wand. The glass slipper. The handsome prince. The music from a proper orchestra (albeit missing the horn section thanks to the snow). The dry ice and the indoor fireworks to mark the coming of midnight. Everything was perfect.

  When Buttons asked for volunteers to help with the ‘song-sheet’ – that part of the panto where the kids are asked to join in with singing an old classic – Kirsty was on her feet so fast it took the people on stage aback.

  ‘A little more enthusiasm, please,’ said Buttons as Kirsty clambered up the steps as fast as her short legs would allow. The adults in the audience laughed indulgently. Kirsty was joined by just one other child – a boy two years older and a whole head taller than her. But though the other child was older, there was no doubting which of the two was more confident. When Buttons passed Kirsty the mic, so she could tell the audience who she was and where she had come from, her voice was loud and clear.

  ‘I’m Kirsty Watson from Greenwood,’ she said. Buttons went to take the microphone to hand it to the other child but Kirsty hung onto it and brought it back to her mouth to add with pride. ‘And I’m five. And a half.’

  The audience gave her an ‘aaaahhhh’.

  ‘And I’m forty-five,’ said Buttons. ‘But I think I can pass for twenty in the dark.’

  The audience laughed along.

  The song-sheet that year was ‘Old MacDonald’. The children were given animals to interpret. Because the audience was so small and the volunteers so few, Kirsty was given pig, sheep and cat. Her companion was dog, cow and horse. Kirsty played her part with huge gusto. She didn’t just make the sounds, she pulled faces and made up her own animal actions (though no one knew why Kirsty’s sheep flapped its wings). She had the audience in the palm of her hand.

  At the end of the song, Buttons asked for a round of applause. And that was it. Kirsty was hooked. She was still taking bow after bow, mixed with the occasional curtsey, when Buttons offered her a bag of sweets and a little teddy bear as a reward for her participation. She took another four bows and would have kept going for as long as the audience were happy to clap. In the end, Stu had to go on stage to fetch her down so the show could carry on.

  Returning to her seat, Kirsty was glowing with pride and happiness.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ her mother told her.

  ‘She doesn’t get it from me,’ said her dad.

  Kirsty kept that panto teddy bear for years. Whenever she held it, she felt a little bit of the magic she’d experienced that night. After the performance, the cast came on stage for photographs, to show their gratitude to the people who had made it through the snow. Having been full of confidence for the song-sheet, Kirsty was surprisingly shy when she was introduced to Cinderella herself. Up close, the princess seemed even more wonderful. Her jewels were as big as Christmas baubles. Her glittering shoes were the stuff of every small girl’s dreams.

  ‘Would you like to try one on?’ Cinders asked.

  Kirsty sat down on the boards to struggle out of one wellie. Even with her thick winter socks on, Kirsty’s foot was tiny in the glass slipper (which was a Dolcis pump with sequins glued on). She was delighted.

  ‘It fits you better than me,’ Cinders exclaimed. ‘I’d better tell the prince.’

  Kirsty wondered what had happened to that Cinderella. She wished she’d kept a programme from the night so she could look the actress up. She’d have liked to tell her how she’d been inspired by her magical performance. Even now, knowing what it took to put on a show and how dusty and dirty a business it was to produce such sparkle, when Kirsty remembered her very first panto the memory shone like the stolen gold in a pirate’s chest, or the treasure in Aladdin’s cave, like Cinderella’s tiny glass slipper …

  Chapter Fourteen

  If he was honest, Ben was astonished that a whole four days after Kirsty came into the shop to get her flyers printed Thea was still keen to audition for a part in Cinderella. Judy thought it was an excellent idea and reminded Ben that he too had been interested in the theatre as a child.

  ‘It’s the perfect activity for Thea,’ said Judy. ‘I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’

  Still Ben had assumed she would go off the idea. But no, every single night that week, Thea had insisted on watching YouTube clips of dozens of different versions of the classic fairytale. From cartoons to ballets to obscure opera productions. She sang along (or rather hummed) in English, French and Japanese. She speculated on what the actual parts available to an eight year old might be. Mouse? Sparrow? Dancing Tea Pot?

  She worried about the plot.

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why the prince had to go round the whole country with the shoe. Couldn’t he tell as soon as he looked at the Ugly Sisters they weren’t the one he was looking for? Why couldn’t he recognise Cinderella by her face?’

  ‘Good point,’ said Ben.

  ‘And the coach turned back into a pumpkin and the horses turned back into mice and her dress turned back into rags. So why didn’t the glass shoe turn back into one of her tatty old slippers? And how come she had both her old slippers on when the prince came round?’

  ‘All excellent questions,’ said Ben. ‘And I can’t answer a single one.’

  Jo would have known the answers. Or at least had a good stab at making some up. What’s more, she would have agreed that Thea was right to be worried about the prince. In the weeks before she died, Jo insisted she and Ben talk at length about how he would parent Thea as she grew and changed. Jo thought of everything. She even ordered a book on puberty from Amazon. Ben had it tucked away in a drawer, with a postcard from Jo inside the front cover that reminded him not to expect Thea to want to read it with him. He should just hand it over and let her read it at her own pace. She could ask questions later if she wanted to. He hoped he wouldn’t have to think about that particular parenting hurdle for quite a few years yet.

  Jo had also made him promise that he would talk to Thea about love and relationships and make sure that she never ever gave away her power to someone who didn’t love and cherish her. Just because Thea was female, she should n
ot sit around waiting to be chosen. She should remember her equal right to choose, Jo said. She should make sure that any person she became involved with – of course it didn’t have to be a man – was worthy of her time and attention. That her beloved had more going for him or her than material things. That they weren’t the kind of person whose head could be turned by a pair of fancy shoes.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ said Thea, when he failed to give her a satisfactory answer as to why the single glass slipper hadn’t lost its magic at midnight like all the other Fairy Godmother charms. ‘You are rubbish sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m rubbish but I’m glad you’re asking these questions. Because I would be very worried indeed if one day you decided to marry a man who could only recognise you by your footwear. Even if he did own the whole kingdom.’

  ‘Maybe he just needed glasses like I’ve got,’ Thea suggested.

  ‘Perhaps you should write the sequel, in which Cinders uses her new-found riches to buy Prince Charming some specs.’

  ‘Or contact lenses,’ said Thea.

  ‘Glasses are better,’ said Ben.

  ‘Nice big glittery ones,’ Thea agreed. She was sporting a sparkling sticker of a holly leaf on the side of her own specs. Judy had bought Thea a sheet of Christmas stickers from the corner shop as an end-of-the-week treat. Ben had agreed to have a snowman stuck to the cover of his phone.

  But despite the silliness of the story, Thea was still determined that she wanted to be a part of it. Liking fairytales doesn’t mean you have to buy into them, Ben supposed.

  The night before the auditions, Thea set the alarm clock for seven and placed it on Ben’s bedside table.

  ‘In case you forget to do it yourself. And because Grandma’s not here to remind you.’

  Judy was visiting friends that weekend.