by Pamela Brown
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
NOTES ABOUT THE SETTING
1 OVER THE THRESHOLD
2 SPRING TERM
3 “FIT UP”
4 DANCING IN THE SQUARE
5 BEGINNERS, PLEASE!
6 THE ENVIOUS NYMPHS
7 INDIAN SUMMER
8 MAINLY CRAB-LIKE
9 PLANS AND PROBLEMS
10 COUNCIL CHAMBER
11 JELLIED EELS
12 PUBLIC SHOW
13 OPPORTUNITY IS A FINE THING
14 “BELOVED VIPER”
15 PRELUDE TO SUCCESS
16 FIRST NIGHT
17 PRODIGAL’S RETURN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
COPYRIGHT
NOTES ABOUT THE SETTING
Golden Pavements was first published in the 1940s, and the following references may require some additional explanation for the modern reader.
Before decimalization in 1971, British currency consisted of pounds, shillings, and pence:
12 pence = 1 shilling
20 shillings = 1 pound
21 shillings = 1 guinea
so three and six means “three shillings and sixpence”.
A rep. (or repertory) company was a theatre company which resided permanently at a particular theatre, regularly changing the performances on offer to their audiences.
A panatrope was an early form of record player.
O.U.D.S. was, and still is, the Oxford University Dramatic Society.
Lyons Corner Houses were a restaurant chain.
Pawnbrokers were more common than they are now. A pawnbroker lends a customer money in exchange for one of the customer’s possessions. If the customer is not able to repay the loan after a certain time, the pawnbroker is entitled to sell the item.
A Dutch treat is when both members of a couple share the cost of everything on an outing.
1
OVER THE THRESHOLD
“And don’t embarrass me by talking about the Blue Door Theatre all the time,” said Nigel. They were sitting at breakfast in No. 37 Fitzherbert Street, W.1, on the first morning of the Spring Term. It was now nine o’clock. At nine-thirty they must set out for the British Actors’ Guild Dramatic School. Nigel, who had already spent a year there, had assumed a somewhat superior manner and was giving them advice as to their behaviour.
“But why shouldn’t we mention the Blue Door?” demanded Lynette. “I’m not ashamed of it—even if you are.”
“My dear girl,” said Nigel. “All the shows we used to do were amateur, decidedly amateur. Now that you’re going to train for professional acting, you’ll have to forget all that. Nobody’s interested in it. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
There was silence except for Bulldog, who scrunched toast, regardless of his elder brother’s sermon. Vicky, who was Bulldog’s twin, and shared his red hair and freckles, looked round the table thoughtfully. Yes, it was rather obvious that Nigel had already begun his training for the stage. Whereas Bulldog and Jeremy were well-scrubbed and polished, with neatly cut hair and dark suits, ready for their first day at dramatic school, Nigel wore corduroy trousers, a green shirt, a yellow tie, and a sandy sports coat. Occasionally as he talked a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he shook it back with a careless gesture. The other five felt rather in awe of him these days. He seemed an actor already.
Sandra, practical as ever, glanced at the clock. “We’d better get a move on,” she said; “it would be awful to be late the first day. And whatever shall we do about the porridge?” She indicated six bowls of grey lumpy mixture that stood untouched before them.
“Mrs. Bosham will be heartbroken if you don’t eat it,” said Nigel. “She takes it as a personal insult if you leave a crumb.”
“Well, I’m leaving mine,” announced Jeremy, wrinkling his nose fastidiously, “it’s quite disgusting. What have you done with yours every day since you’ve been here, Nigel?”
“This!” said Nigel, as with expert aim he flung the revolting mass into the fire.
“But we can’t all do that,” objected Sandra. “It would put the fire out. And supposing Mrs. Whatnot comes in—oh, whatever shall we do?” She looked helplessly round the ugly little boarding-house room, with its greying lace curtains, china animals, and photos of the Bosham family in every conceivable position, and many ornate little vases, presents from Bognor, Southend, or Margate.
“We could fill up some of the vases,” suggested Vicky.
“But what would we do tomorrow?” Sandra wanted to know. “And after a while it would begin to smell. No, we must do it all up in a parcel and dump it somewhere—in a litter basket.” She snatched up the morning paper and began to scoop the glutinous messes into it.
“Who’s going to carry it?” Bulldog asked suspiciously.
“You!” replied five voices determinedly.
“H’m! Well, I will today, but someone else must do it tomorrow.”
“We’ll work out a rota,” laughed Nigel. “Come on. Step on it. I’d like to get there early today to see if I’ve been moved up or not.” They ran upstairs to their bedrooms to put on their hats and coats.
As Lyn arranged her furry Cossack hat in the mirror her heart was thumping with excitement. At last it was to begin—a real stage training. Her stomach turned over with a delicious mixture of joy and trepidation. Vicky was pirouetting across the landing.
“I do hope we have dancing today,” she said.
“I hope we have singing,” volunteered Sandra, brushing her fair hair until it gleamed.
“I don’t,” breathed Lyn, into the mirror. “I just want to act, and act, and act—”
“Come on, you hags!” roared Nigel. “Stop titivating, for goodness’ sake.” They assembled in the hall, each clasping massive volumes of Shakespeare. Mrs. Bosham came out to wish them luck. She was a completely circular woman, round face, round body, eyes and mouth continually rounded with surprise at the world in general, and plump round hands that were always busy knitting some shapeless garment which she could never quite master.
“Well, well!” she cried in wonderment. “So you’re off now, are you? (Two plain, two purl, slip one…) Well, I never did! Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Bosham!” they chorused.
“I always think a nice spot of porridge is so warming of a cold morning.” Bulldog clutched the sticky parcel closer to him. “I shall expect to see you come back tonight as famous actors—all of you! (Knit two together.)”
They smirked feebly and Nigel opened the door with impatience.
Outside in the clear winter air they realized that No. 37 had a slight but permanent odour of cabbage. Fitzherbert Street was a dingy street, there was no denying it. On one side there were Victorian houses, like No. 37, that had come down in the world and were now cheap lodging-houses for students, artists, and workers of every nationality. The other side consisted mainly of restaurants—French, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, with stripy shades over the windows, and menus outside that read like poetry. It was a brisk winter morning, and the whole world seemed to be on its way to work.
“London!” sighed Lyn contentedly.
“Is it far to the Academy?” Sandra asked Nigel as they strode along.
“Five minutes.”
They crossed Tottenham Court Road where the traffic roared and newsboys cried the names of morning papers, and entered a quiet square where plane trees braved the soot and dust. And there was a tall, grey stone house with lions at the doorposts. In simple lettering over the lintel were the words, “British Actors’ Guild Academy”, and underneath, “They have their exits and their entrances.”
Instinctively their pace slowed, and they looked up at the
many large windows, from which came the sound of laughter and tinkling pianos. A constant stream of students entered through the swing doors, all talking very loudly at the same time. Most of them had very long hair, wore gaily coloured clothes, and many of the girls wore slacks. Suddenly a tall girl with chestnut hair and a lot of lipstick put her head out of the door, saw Nigel, and launched herself at him.
“Darling!” she cried. “How are you? I’ve got simply piles to tell you! We’ve both been moved up, and what do you think?” Nigel was dragged inside the swing doors and out of their sight.
They turned and looked at each other in amazement. “Well, I do think that’s rude!” exclaimed Lyn. “She didn’t even speak to us. Now what do we do, I wonder?”
“Go in,” said Sandra firmly, mounting the steps with an assurance she did not feel.
Inside was a large foyer that churned and swelled with a laughing, shouting, gesticulating crowd of young people. In one corner was a large, green-baize notice-board, which seemed to be the centre of attraction. Students would rush up to it with set countenance, elbow their way to the front of the crowd, and run their fingers down the lists. Then they would either crow with delight and embrace all within reach, or turn away with a wry smile saying, “Of course, I didn’t really expect to move up.”
The five of them stood in a timid group on the doormat, on which were the initials B.A.G.A. in large block letters. Only the violent entry of someone through the doors behind them propelled the five into the crowd. Lynette, being thin, was the first to reach the notice-board. There, at the bottom of the list, below fifteen other names, for Class One, she read, “Jeremy Darwin, Lynette Darwin, Sandra Fayne, Victoria Jane Halford, Percy Turnbull Halford.” Vicky and Bulldog seethed with indignation.
“However did they get our middle names? I bet it was that Nigel’s doing!”
At this moment there appeared on the broad marble staircase a smart, black-clad, grey-haired woman, who, smiling, rang a large bell to silence the din.
“If you wish to attend prayers, go down into the theatre,” she announced, when she could make herself heard.
“Prayers!” gasped Vicky. “Gosh! Wouldn’t our parents be surprised? They were afraid we were coming to a den of iniquity.”
The crowd began to surge down the stone stairs to the basement, still talking incessantly. The Blue Doors heard many intriguing scraps of conversation.
“…So I went round to the stage door and asked to see the producer—and what do you think?” … “Are you going in for the fencing comp. this term?” … “My dear, I’ve been in pantomime over Christmas. Yes, really—front row chorus—it was a scream” … “But she could never play Hedda Gabler” …
The theatre was small and cosy with red plush tip-up seats, and hanging round the wall a gallery of faces of famous ex-students.
“There’s Felicity Warren!” Lynette pointed out. “And Roma Seymore! Oh, how lovely to be here at last!”
The hubbub silenced suddenly as Mr. Wainwright Whitfield, the principal, appeared in front of the curtains of the little stage. He was a tall, imposing, silver-haired man, with kind eyes and a furrowed brow.
“My mother told me he was a matinee idol when she was young,” Vicky hissed Sandra’s ear. “Understandable, don’t you think?”
“Good morning and welcome everybody,” he began. “I trust that we shall all spend a very happy term together.” He went on to explain some of the aims and rules of the Academy, and then stopped suddenly and said, “Let us pray.” There was a shuffle and a squeaking of seats, and a hundred and fifty students stood with bowed heads.
Lyn was acutely conscious of the rise and fall of Wainwright Whitfield’s velvet voice, the watching portraits on the wall, and her own heart, thumping with a will to work and succeed. The only phrase of the prayer that remained with her was, “…and make us to be worthy citizens of the London in which we live.”
When everyone had trooped up into the foyer again, the secretary with the bell appeared and rang it furiously for silence.
“You will find a list of your classrooms on the notice-board,” she announced. “First-termers will please follow me.” There was a buzz of interest as the twenty beginners detached themselves from the crowd and mounted the steps in single file, running the gauntlet of stares from the senior pupils. Nigel made a face at the Blue Doors, followed by a cheering smile, and then resumed his deep conversation with the chestnut-haired female. The first-termers were led into a long light studio, surrounded with book-cases and portraits of Edmund Kean, Mrs. Siddons, and other famous actors and actresses of the past. And there, behind a desk, sat Roma Seymore. The Blue Doors knew her already, for she had judged the amateur drama contest that they had won at Fenchester, and it was very comforting to see a familiar face amongst all these strangers.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling the famous smile that had warmed the hearts of theatre-goers for the last forty years. “Do sit down, everybody.” They ranged themselves in chairs in a semi-circle around her. “Now some of you I know, and others I don’t,” she continued, “so I’ll start the term properly by calling the register. Say ‘Yes’ or ‘Here’ or ‘Adsum’ or whatever you please.” Bulldog was so busy taking stock of the other students that he missed his name altogether, and it had to be called twice before he came to with a start, and said “O.K.,” which set the whole class laughing. The other students appeared to be a great mixture. They varied from a mousey little girl of about fifteen, in pigtails and a gym slip, to an elderly foreign gentleman who seemed unable to speak or understand English. There was also a young Indian boy whom the Blue Doors recognized as having played several large roles in adventure films. In a group together sat three very beautifully dressed young girls of about seventeen, and two youths in stove-pipe trousers, wearing ties that Jeremy announced in a whisper were old Etonian.
When Roma Seymore had completed the register she said, “And now I want to get to know you, and to hear just how much acting you have all done previously.” She turned to the Blue Doors. “You five, of course, I know your work. You’ve done a good lot of amateur, haven’t you?” The Blue Doors blushed scarlet and looked down as though it were a crime. “And a very good thing, too,” she went on. “Don’t look so ashamed of it. You’ll probably have to unlearn a lot, but at least it’s a start.” She turned to the foreign gentleman. “Mr. Gottlieb, I know that you have made a fine reputation in Austria—I think we’ve all heard of Otto Gottlieb, haven’t we?” The class made vague noises of agreement, although nobody had. “And I hope we shall be able to help you considerably with your English!”
“Thanks much, kind lady,” was Mr. Gottlieb’s appreciative reply, and although he was sitting down he bowed gallantly from the waist.
“And you too, Ali, must concentrate on your English, mustn’t you?” The Indian boy replied only with a shy smile.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the rest of you, so I must inquire in turn what you have done.” The three society girls and the old Etonians replied “amateur” in rather bored voices, the little girl in the gym tunic said, “I’ve done some broadcasting,” and two blondes, one fat and one thin, said they had done chorus work. A very ugly girl, in shabby slacks and a torn macintosh, replied, “Nothing,” in a sulky tone.
“Then what has made you want to be an actress?” asked Mrs. Seymore quite kindly.
“Because I know I can,” the girl replied almost fiercely.
A dark, statuesque girl with an elaborate hair-style said she had done some film work, and a young man with numerous pimples on his face said he had been in the O.U.D.S. at Oxford. Of the remaining two, one was middle-aged and the other young. The woman was about forty with a heavily made-up face, and hair dyed an unnatural auburn. “Well, I’ve been in the profession for over twenty years,” she began in a fruity voice.
“Twenty years!” exclaimed Mrs. Seymore. “Then why have you come to the Academy?” The woman laughed richly. “A few months ago I found myself
playing Wigan Empire for the tenth time, so I says to myself, ‘Myrtle, my girl, if you’re still playing Wigan Empire at forty there must be something wrong with you.’” After the laughter which followed this frank explanation, Roma said kindly, “Well, I think it’s a very brave gesture on your part, and I hope we shall be able to help you.”
The last member of the class to be questioned was a fat boy of about sixteen, who appeared to have an impediment in his speech.
“And have you been on the stage before?” Roma inquired.
“Oh, yeth,” he answered. “My Mummy and Daddy are in the profethion.”
“Really? And what do they do?”
“They have a theal act.”
“A what?”
“A theal act. You know—with thealth!”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t quite—”
“Performing thealth,” spluttered the boy, quite hurt by this time.
“Oh, I see. Performing seals. Oh, yes, that must have been interesting. And what did you do?”
“I uthed to throw the fish for them.” There were subdued giggles from various quarters, but Mrs. Seymore retained her gravity.
“Well, you’ll be used to appearing on the stage, at least, won’t you?” she said hurriedly.
“Oh, no, I uthed to thtand in the wingth.”
“What a collection of people!” whispered Lynette to Sandra.
“P’raps we strike them as just as odd,” she replied.
For the rest of the lesson Roma Seymore read to them the play in which she was to produce them during the term. It was Shaw’s Pygmalion, and although Roma read all the parts, she seemed to change character visibly. One minute she was the little Cockney gamin, then the pedantic professor, and next minute the alcoholic dustman. They were in stitches of laughter by the end of the period.
“That was the most enjoyable lesson I’ve ever had in my life!” said Vicky as they filed out. “I didn’t dream that a school could be like this,” and she wiped tears of hilarity from her eyes.
