Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  “He hasn’t even started,” said Vicky. “I went down into the workshop and had a snoop round. There are about four sets by different people lying about half finished, but nothing of Nigel’s at all.”

  “I think,” Lyn said determinedly, “that I shall have a word with Miss Auriole.”

  “But you daren’t!” cried Vicky.

  “Why not?”

  “Well—I mean—she’s a senior.”

  “She’s only a girl, the same as me. If she’s a few years older and smokes Turkish cigarettes in a silly great holder, I can’t help it. I shall speak to her after lunch.”

  Auriole was holding court on a sofa that stood in an alcove in the foyer when Lyn found her, Nigel at her side mending a fencing foil for her. Ignored by Nigel, Lynette broke through the little group of students who were hanging on every word spoken by the chestnut-haired beauty. “Could I have a word with you, please, Auriole?”

  “Oh, look, darling,” said Auriole to Nigel, “here’s your protégée. What do you want, my child?”

  “I want to speak to you—privately.”

  Auriole looked surprised.

  “Good gracious! If you’re wanting good advice don’t come to Aunty Auriole. She’s sure to lead you astray!” She rose languidly and followed Lynette up the stairs.

  “Well, what is it?”

  Lyn swung round sharply, her dark eyes flashing. “I want to ask you to leave Nigel alone. At least until the end of the term.”

  Auriole looked at her closely for a moment, then laughed loudly.

  “What a child you are! Why should I leave him alone?”

  “Because you’re interfering with his work.”

  “Work? What’s that?” laughed Auriole.

  Lyn lost her temper. “No, I don’t believe you do know what work is! I’ve never seen you do anything except lounge about flirting with people. Before Nigel met you he was keen and hard-working, but now he’s getting to be as idle as you are. And you’re spending all his money. Do you know he hasn’t paid his rent for three weeks?”

  “Hasn’t paid his rent?” Auriole sounded astonished. “But I thought…”

  “What did you think?”

  “Well, he always seemed so free with his money. I thought he was very well off. I thought you all were—the whole gang of you. You always look it.”

  “Nigel and all of us have a very small weekly allowance from our parents, which just about pays our rent and leaves a few shillings over for pocket-money—certainly not enough to cater for expensive tastes like yours. Anyhow, it will have to stop soon, because Nigel is absolutely broke.”

  “Well, thanks, dear, for telling me. Saves me from wasting my time, doesn’t it?” And Auriole sailed down the stairs to lavish her attentions on one of the old Etonians from the beginners’ class.

  From then on Nigel returned to the fold. He spent his evenings either working on the model theatre at the Academy or at No. 37 with the Blue Doors, studying and talking. On Saturday he accompanied them out to the theatre queues, where they sat outside on hard little stools for several hours, reading, eating chocolate, and doing crossword puzzles, until the doors opened and they scrambled in to get the best seats in the front row of the gallery. Entranced, they sat through Shakespeare, ballet, American comedies—all that the theatres offered them, and returned to Fitzherbert Street drunk with excitement and ambition.

  On Sundays they had a system of going to a different famous church each time. In this way they visited St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, St. Martin in the Fields, Westminster Cathedral, and Brompton Oratory. Sunday afternoons usually found them walking over Hampstead Heath, and having tea at one of the little old inns that held the ghosts of so many poets and great men of the past.

  As the end of the term drew near the whole Academy was in a turmoil. Each day in the little theatre there were performances by one class or another, and the rest of the students turned up in full force to applaud, laugh, or boo with twice the vigour of an ordinary audience. There was always a smattering of friends and relations of the performers at these shows. Lynette had an unfortunate experience of this. She was watching a particularly agonizing performance of Dear Brutus, in which a very fat girl was playing the “dream child”, and turning to Sandra in the interval, Lynette remarked, “Some dream child—more like a nightmare. She ought never to be allowed on the stage.”

  “I agree,” said a voice on the other side of Lyn, “and I’m her mother.” For the rest of the show Lynette was so covered with shame she could hardly look up at the stage.

  “And to think,” she said to Sandra afterwards, “that before long it will be us up there on the stage with everyone in the audience being catty about us. Oh, how awful!”

  Their first show was the Molière comedy, but as the French class included students out of all the classes in the Academy, the Blue Doors had very small walking-on parts.

  As the day approached for the performance of Pygmalion, the rivalry between Helen and Lynette became more and more keen. One day Helen remarked to her bitterly, “Of course you’ll get the scholarship. You’re bound to. Our performances are about equal, but you look all right on the stage.” This made Lynette feel guilty somehow.

  Helen seemed to be growing very strange and nervy. One day in class Roma Seymore asked her suddenly, “Do you come from a theatrical family, Helen?” Helen looked at the floor, flushed brick red, then burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  “What an odd thing!” said Mrs. Seymore. “Lynette, dear, go and see if she’s all right.”

  Lynette found her crouching outside on the stairs, racked with sobs.

  “Whatever’s wrong, Helen?”

  “Go away. Don’t touch me. How dare she pry into my affairs.”

  “But she wasn’t prying. It was meant as a compliment, really it was!” Helen rose unsteadily, her pale face blotched with tears.

  “Well, I don’t want compliments. They’re no good to me. All I want is that scholarship—and I know I shan’t get it.” She hurried off down the stairs before Lyn could stop her. But it was not long before Lyn saw her again.

  That evening Lyn could not settle down. There was nothing to be learnt. She had polished her Eliza Doolittle scene and her Constance in King John until any more work on them would probably only make them worse. Sandra was sewing some of their costumes that needed alterations. Vicky was mending ballet shoes. The boys were spread out on the floor discussing some of the technical details of Nigel’s model stage set.

  “I’m going out,” said Lyn. “Shan’t be long.”

  She walked as far as Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall, and on to Westminster Bridge. The air was salt, as if it were the seaside, and the Houses of Parliament towered grey and delicate. All along the riverside the lights glittered and were reflected in the water. She leaned on the bridge for a long time. Suddenly she felt hungry, and decided that a cup of coffee was necessary before she attempted the long walk home. On the other side of the river she found a little café called the Riverside Dining Rooms and went in. While she waited to be served she drew out her pocket volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and was deeply immersed when the waitress asked, “What can I get you?”

  Lyn looked up quickly and her mouth fell open. It was Helen in a shabby cap and apron, with a tray in one hand, looking down at her viciously.

  “I feared someone from the Academy would come here one day,” she hissed. “Why did it have to be you?”

  “But do you—do you have to do this?” Lyn asked timidly.

  “Yes, I do! I haven’t got any parents to send me a nice little weekly allowance. I had to do this for a year first, to save enough to pay my fees for this term. And now if I don’t get the scholarship I’ll have to leave until I can save enough to pay my fees for another term. It’s going to take rather a long time, isn’t it?” she snarled.

  “But how long do you work here?”

  “From six in the evening until one in the morning.”

  “You must get ti
red.”

  “I’m used to it now. Look, I’d better serve you or the old dragon will be nattering.”

  The “old dragon” was a skinny old woman who sat behind the cash desk in a dirty black dress. When Helen brought her coffee Lynette said, “Won’t you tell me why you were so upset when Roma Seymore asked if you came from a theatrical family?”

  Helen looked sullen for a moment, then said “My mother was Deirdre Anderson. I expect you’ve heard of her. She was a wonderful actress in her day—but extravagant. She died three years ago when I was fifteen. She didn’t leave anything—except debts. All her friends had deserted her by that time, so I started to work, but I knew—just knew that I had to act. So even if it takes me years to save enough money, I’m going to get my training.”

  “But why don’t you find a job in a nicer place?” Helen laughed cynically. “That’s the joke. I can’t work anywhere where I’d be likely to meet any theatre people. I thought this place was as safe as any, until you walked in.”

  “But why should you be ashamed of it?” cried Lyn. “I should be proud—terribly proud.”

  “Waitress!” came a vexed shout from another table, and Helen hurried off. Lyn paid her bill and went out. On the way home she was deep in thought.

  Next day neither Helen nor Lyn spoke to each other, and Lyn did not tell the rest of the Blue Doors about their meeting.

  The performance of Pygmalion went off quite well, with Lynette and Helen both acclaimed as excellent “Elizas”. Bulldog’s “Doolittle” was much appreciated by the students, who laughed every time he opened his mouth, but Mr. Whitfield was not particularly amused. Their Shakespeare scenes were performed on the day before the last day of the term. Helen had a scene from Cleopatra which brought the house down. Lynette’s “Constance” was equally good. When the show was over and Lynette had removed her grease-paint she ran down the stairs to Mr. Whitfield’s office, knocked, and walked in.

  “Please, Mr. Whitfield,” she said, “I’m going to be terribly presumptuous. But everyone says you don’t know whether to give the scholarship to me or to Helen. Even Mrs. Seymore said that. So please don’t think I’m being impertinent when I ask you not to give me the scholarship. I can do without it, but Helen can’t. I’ve got a small allowance, and though a scholarship would help, it’s not terribly necessary. But Helen will have to leave tomorrow unless you give her the scholarship. Oh, please do.”

  Mr. Whitfield smiled quietly. “But how do you know that I am not intending to give the scholarship to Bulldog—or our Indian friend?”

  “Well, you might be for all I know. But if you’re thinking of giving it to me, please give it to Helen instead.”

  He looked thoughtfully at her for a few seconds, then said, “How much does the stage mean to you, Lynette?”

  “Everything.”

  “You can go now.”

  Next day, at the end-of-term prize-giving Lyn clapped loudly as Nigel received the prize for scenic design, which was a beautifully equipped model theatre, like the one belonging to the Academy. “Alone I did it!” she whispered to Sandra.

  And when Mr. Whitfield announced that the beginners’ scholarship had gone to Helen, Lyn clapped until her hands nearly came off.

  “You ought to have had it!” all her friends told her. “It’s a shame!”

  “No, it’s not. I’m quite happy about it,” she told them. And to herself:

  “Happy about it? I’m positively smug!”

  3

  “FIT UP”

  A few days before the end of the spring term a notice was pinned on the green-baize notice-board which read: “Any students interested in taking part in an Easter play to tour the rural schools during the holidays, please attend a meeting at ten-thirty in Room Four, the day after the end of term.” The Blue Doors argued about it at length.

  “Our parents are expecting us to go home.”

  “But it’s a chance to get some experience.”

  “What about poor little Maddy, though? She’s looking forward so much to seeing us again.”

  “But we’d probably get quite good parts, because I don’t suppose many people would want to work in the holidays.” Finally they decided to go along to the meeting and see what it was all about.

  Only thirty pupils from the whole Academy had turned up. Nobody knew anyone else, and there was silence except for the chattering Blue Doors, until Mr. Whitfield appeared with a pile of books in his hand.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Now, I expect you’re wondering what exactly this show is to be. We are planning to take out this rather beautiful Easter play to schools all over the country, in remote parts where they get very little theatrical entertainment. You will have two weeks’ rehearsal and six weeks’ tour. The Academy will pay your expenses and a small sum for pocket-money. Now, the cast only calls for twenty, I’m afraid, so some of you will be disappointed. I shall not pay any attention to seniority in giving out the parts, but I will audition you as if it were a normal professional engagement.”

  The light of battle shone in all eyes, and when the scripts were handed out the students glanced hastily through to see which parts they hoped to get. Lyn immediately pinned her hopes on the part of Mary Magdalene, who had some wonderful speeches. The play was very simple but beautifully written, with a child in the main part. It was obvious that this part would fall to Wendy, the little girl in the beginners’ class, for a term at the Academy had done nothing to sophisticate her. She still wore plaits and kilts and jumpers. It was rather nerve-wracking to read an entirely strange script as an audition, but the Blue Doors put up quite a good show. The reading lasted the whole morning, and by the end of it everyone had read every possible part.

  “Now run along and have your lunch,” Mr. Whitfield told them, “and I’ll think over the casting and let you know this afternoon at two-thirty.”

  Lyn remarked over lunch at Raddler’s, “We kidded ourselves we were only going to the meeting this morning to see what it was all about, but of course it’s quite obvious that we’re all dying to go on the tour.”

  “I wonder where it’s going? Wouldn’t it be funny if it went to Fenchester?” said Vicky. “To our old schools. Gosh, I’d love to see their faces—if we were in it.”

  The atmosphere was tense when they returned to the Academy and Mr. Whitfield read out the cast. Bulldog was the first of the Blue Doors to be mentioned.

  “P. Halford—Roman centurion.” Bulldog blushed with pleasure under his freckles. And then, on top of that came Nigel’s and Vicky’s names.

  “V. Halford, an angel. N. Halford, Judas.” Nigel tried to look as if he’d been expecting a good part all the time.

  “Your family are in favour,” Lynette whispered to Vicky, not without envy. But the Darwin family were luckier still, for next minute Lyn and Jeremy heard their names read out for the parts of Mary Magdalene and Pontius Pilate. Lyn was so thrilled that she broke into an enormous grin that would not be controlled. It seemed to be spreading itself right round to her ears, and nothing she could do would stop it. She tried to appear nonchalant, like Nigel, but without success. And then, as the cast list was finished she realized suddenly that Sandra was the only one of them not included.

  “Oh, Sandra!” she said. “I am sorry!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” replied Sandra quietly. “I must admit I’m disappointed, but it’s all to the good that one of us should go home. And Maddy will be pleased.” But inside she was very miserable. Mr. Whitfield told them that rehearsals would start the following day, and all the fortunate ones gathered together to discuss the tour excitedly—what they should take with them, and where they were likely to go.

  Rehearsals in the empty Academy were rather exciting. It seemed a very different place from the noisy hive of activity of term time. Now that the days were getting warmer they often took their own lunch and ate it on the flat roof, from which there was a magnificent view over London. One could see as far as the dumpy trees of Hampstead Heath. Bulldog d
elighted in climbing the tall flagpole, from which vantage point he would terrify passers-by in the street below by pretending to lose his balance.

  For this production their lines and moves had to be learned much more quickly than the Blue Doors had ever before found necessary.

  “Do you remember,” said Vicky, “when we used to rehearse for about six months, and then never be word perfect on the night?”

  “That was because we used to make up the plays as we went along, almost,” laughed Lyn. “Oh, what fun those days were. But how long ago they seem!”

  “I suppose one has to work harder than this in rep.,” said Nigel. “Gosh, what a strain!”

  “Won’t it be fun,” said Bulldog, “When we turn the Blue Door Theatre into a professional rep.!”

  “Do you think we ever shall?” asked Lyn. They all turned on her in surprise.

  “But of course! Why, we’ve promised our parents and the Bishop. It’s what we’ve come to the Academy for.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lyn slowly. “I was forgetting.”

  “But don’t you want to?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lynette vaguely. “Yes, of course.”

  “Everybody on stage, please,” interrupted the stage manager, and they ran down the stairs to the theatre, hastily munching the remains of their sandwiches.

  Gradually the play, which was called Within Three Days, began to take a hold on them. At first the Blue Doors had been a little awed at having to work with seniors who were much older and more experienced than themselves, but Mr. Whitfield treated everybody equally, and was either encouraging or sarcastic, according to the effort that was being made.

  “Your voices are not doing their work properly,” he told them. “Don’t you realize that you are speaking some of the most lovely lines ever written? So give them full value. Don’t hold your voices back.”

  During the second week of rehearsals they had to go into the wardrobe to have their costumes fitted. Mrs. Bertram, the motherly old wardrobe mistress, who had worked there for years, welcomed them with pins in her mouth, then said firmly, “Girls, I’m telling you now once and for all—you will not be allowed to have any hair showing. With Biblical plays we always have trouble over curls and rolls appearing on people’s foreheads. It’s to be a plain wimple or nothing.”