by Pamela Brown
“No. All our post seems to have gone astray.”
“Then—you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“About Maddy?”
“Maddy? No. What has she done now?”
“She’s a film star.”
“A what?”
“A film star!”
“What are you talking about?” Nigel’s tone made the rest of the Blue Doors gather round, straining their ears to hear the squeaky little voice that came through the receiver.
“Maddy has been given the leading part in a film about Fenchester. It’s called Forsaken Crown, and she plays a little girl of Tudor days. It all happened because she met one of the film men on the bumper cars at Browcliffe, and he took her down to see the filming, and who do you think was playing the lead?”
“I thought you said Maddy was—”
“Oh, this was before she went down. It was Felicity Warren! You see, she didn’t know that Elizabeth was only a little girl, and—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Nigel crushingly. “It all sounds quite impossible. You’d better wait till we see you. Are you coming up tomorrow?”
“Yes. But don’t you understand? Maddy is a film star! They’ve got on quite a bit already, and I’ve been in the crowd. Oh, it has been fun!”
“Your time is up,” said the operator, and the pips pipped. Sandra was still chattering away excitedly as Nigel rang off.
“The girl’s quite crazy,” he said. “Nattering away about Maddy being a film star or something. Couldn’t make head or tail of it.”
“Y’r supper’s on,” said Mrs. Bosham, who had been registering surprise in the background ever since they arrived.
In the dining-room: “Why, it’s macaroni cheese and college pudding! What a lovely surprise!” cried Bulldog with heavy sarcasm.
Sandra arrived next day bubbling over with news about her little sister’s lucky chance, and the Blue Doors listened, open-mouthed, to accounts of film life.
“And sometimes,” said Sandra, “we’d spend the whole day shooting over and over again a little scene that will only take up one whole minute on the screen.”
They plied her with questions.
“What was Felicity Warren like?”
“Is film make-up different from stage?”
“How much is Maddy being paid?”
And far into the night Sandra regaled them with fresh titbits as they came to mind. It struck them as funny that, while they had been pitying Sandra for missing the tour, she had actually come in for more excitement than they had.
“Well—Maddy has certainly stolen a march on us, hasn’t she?” said Vicky. “The little monkey! I suppose she won’t want to come to the Academy now?”
“Oh, yes, she will!” Sandra contradicted. “She is awfully condescending about film work. It’s rather funny. She says it’s not real acting at all, and she’s still awfully envious of our being here.”
“But she won’t need to come to the Academy if she’s a full-blown film star—she’ll probably be kept filming for years,” Nigel objected.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Sandra. “The theatre is still her first love.”
“Well, I never did! To think of our little Maddy!”
Next day at the Academy some of the other pupils, having read in the film magazines about Maddy’s piece of luck, crowded round the Blue Doors asking questions. No-one thought to inquire about the holiday tour.
It was certainly pleasant not to be a beginner any more, to inspect the term’s new-comers and say casually, “They don’t look too bright, do they?” to greet class-mates with cries of joy and long accounts of the holidays.
The days seemed to fly by as spring turned into summer. All the windows of the Academy were kept open, and passers-by could hear the rise and fall of chorusing voices, the rhythmic beat of the dancing-class piano, and the clash of fencing foils from the flat roof.
When lessons were over the Blue Doors and gangs of friends would clamber on a bus for Hyde Park, and swim and sunbathe by the Serpentine, eating cherries, learning lines, and pushing each other into the crowded water. Somehow, they did not seem to get so much work done this term. There was always a film or a play to be seen, or an expedition to be made to Richmond, Roehampton, or Kew. The long summer evenings tempted them out of the gloom of No. 37 into the sunshine. And yet their progress did not seem to suffer. Vicky was the one and only star pupil of the ballet class. Lynette still tied with Helen for a first place in all-acting classes. Nigel made wonderful plans for immense and spectacular Shakespearean productions, and Sandra and Bulldog jogged along in a mediocre manner, neither shining nor lagging behind at anything. Sandra was most popular in the wardrobe, where she would turn up on Saturday mornings to give Mrs. Bertram a hand at sewing on sequins and turning up hems.
Throughout the term there was much talk of the Public Show to be given in July. This was for the benefit of the pupils in their final term, and gave them a chance to be seen by agents and producers. One day after prayers Mr. Whitfield announced that the show would take place in four weeks’ time, and, as an innovation, would not be held in the theatre but in the square outside.
“Weather permitting,” he added with a wry smile. “And there will also be a chance for pupils other than the Finals to take part, as there will be a student production competition for a one-act play open to everyone. The best will be performed at the Public Show. Student producers should bear in mind the fact that it will be staged out-of-doors.”
The Blue Doors sat in conclave on the grass in Regent’s Park that evening, eating cherries.
“Of course everyone will do scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Or Twelfth Night.”
“Or As You Like It.”
“Or even The Tempest.”
“But they’re all the obvious things,” continued Nigel. “We must think of something original.”
“What about Maeterlinck’s Blue Bird?” suggested Vicky.
“A bit airy-fairy for us,” objected Nigel. “I don’t think I could produce it.” They discussed this for some time, between competitions in cherry-stone spitting. At supper, over corned beef and a few tired lettuce leaves, Bulldog suggested a scene from Treasure Island and was immediately squashed. They retired to bed, still saying, “What do you think about such-and-such a play?”
In the middle of the night Nigel leapt out of his bed with a glad cry, switched on the light, and shouted, “I’ve got it!”
“What’s the matter?” growled Bulldog. “Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m fine!” cried Nigel. “What do you think about Tobias and the Angel?”
“Oh, not more angels!” said Jeremy, blinking as he awoke. “Didn’t we have enough of them at Easter?”
“Yes—there’s that to consider.” Nigel’s enthusiasm began to abate. He was about to switch off the light when there was a patter of feet along the passage and an urgent knock on the door. Lynette’s excited face appeared round it saying, “What about the garden scene from The Importance of Being Earnest? We’ve got the cast exactly.”
Nigel reflected aloud, “You and Vicky for the two girls, Jeremy and I for Algernon and Jack. Sandra, Miss Prism, Bulldog—Chasuble. It’s an idea.”
“I’d love to play Algernon,” came Jeremy’s muffled voice from the depths of his bed.
“I’d adore to play Chasuble.” Bulldog’s imagination fired, he leaped out of bed and did what he thought was a Chasuble walk round the room. Two tousle-headed figures appeared at the door to inquire what was happening.
“And you could play Cecily, Vicky, and Sandra could play Miss Prism.”
“Another character part,” sighed Sandra. “Doomed to senility. Fifty if I’m a day!”
“But it’s a gift of a part!” expostulated Lynette.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Sandra. “A jewel.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve got a copy of it!” and now Jeremy was out of bed and fe
rreting through the pile of books stacked up in the corner. “Yes! Here it is.” Soon they were squatting round the gas fire that popped and flared, reading the scene delightedly, passing the one book from hand to hand, peering at it over each other’s shoulders, and occasionally breaking out into hastily suppressed giggles.
“Lovely!” sighed Lynette. “Yes, I think we shall do it well.”
“And the costumes will be fun,” said Sandra.
“Nigel must produce, of course.”
“And we must get some stray male in to play the butler.” They were still discussing it excitedly when Mrs. Bosham’s alarm went off at six o’clock, and they realized that they had only a couple of hours in which to sleep before the day’s work.
They went to the Academy heavy-eyed, yet still infused with excitement at their idea. Nigel went straight to the office of Miss Smith, the secretary, and gave in their names for the contest. When she heard what they were doing she said, “Thank Heaven you’re not doing The Dream!”
“Why, Miss Smith?”
“Because everyone else is. There are five other casts, besides yours, entering, and four of them are doing The Dream. Yours will be a nice change.”
Sandra went straight to the wardrobe to Mrs. Bertram, and told her of their decision.
“I thought I’d let you know well beforehand, Mrs. Bertram, because I know how busy you are.”
“Busy, ducks? I’m half crazy. Well, have you any line of costume you particularly fancy?”
“Bright colours, I think,” said Sandra, “as it’s out-of-doors. And quite a lot of white.”
“I’ll see what I can do, deary, and I’ll hold back anything I think may be useful.”
“Don’t bother about any alterations for us,” continued Sandra. “I’ll manage them. We’ve got four weeks.”
For the next few weeks there were no more swimming expeditions or lazy Sundays on Hampstead Heath, for, as well as the normal amount of term’s work, they were rehearsing their scene for the contest night and day.
“It must be subtle—slick—polished,” Nigel would insist.
“And graceful,” added Lyn, who never could help butting in on the production side. It had always been her job in the Blue Door Theatre, but now, somehow, Nigel’s seniority seemed to make it his job.
“Yes, and graceful. Sandra, you must play more for comedy, and Bulldog—er—just a little less.”
One evening Sandra came running up into the bedroom where they were rehearsing, her face pallid.
“Something awful has happened,” she gasped.
“What’s up?”
“Mrs. Bosham wants to come to the Public Show!”
“Oh, gosh, no!”
“She said that she’d heard us ‘practising’ so hard that she’d love to come to the concert and see our ‘little piece’.” They looked at each other despairingly.
“We can’t possibly tell her she can’t.”
“But everyone else will have their parents there—and there are going to be some awfully important people too,” objected Lyn, “and she might wear that terrible feather boa arrangement.”
“Oh, aren’t we snobs!” sighed Sandra. “But it will be awful not to have any of our parents there—only one moth-eaten landlady.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Bulldog cried suddenly. “We’re talking as if we were in the show already. It’s got to be chosen as the best, first of all.”
“True, O King. But I think there’s a pretty good chance of it, as we’re doing something slightly different from the others.”
“Oh, well, let’s cross the Mrs. Bosham bridge when we come to it.”
A few weeks later a notice appeared on the board saying, “After the Public Show there will be a Students’ Dance in the Square. Tickets for students and visitors on sale in the Canteen.”
“What fun!” cried Lyn. “I’ve never been to a real dance. Oh, we must be in the Public Show.”
The heats for the student productions were held in the theatre a week before the Public Show. The Blue Doors had rehearsed and rehearsed until they were as near perfection as they could be under their own direction. Mrs. Bertram had come up to scratch and provided them with some gems of costumes. Vicky wore white and green, Lyn white and red, and Sandra a hideous creation of mauve velvet. The boys were very smart in stove-pipe trousers, and Bulldog’s clerical black had a faintly green tinge of age. They had borrowed Billy, the little boy from the “theal act”, to play the part of Merriman, the butler, in a very unsuccessful grey wig.
The four Midsummer Night’s Dream scenes were performed first, with a galaxy of fairies in various coloured chiffons. The audience consisted only of the other entrants and the staff who were judging, but when their turn came the Blue Doors managed to extract quite a lot in the way of laughter from them. There was one awkward moment when Jeremy choked over his muffin, and they had to wait for about a minute while he gasped and spluttered and tears ran down his cheeks making little streaks on his “five and nine” grease paint. At the end the applause was considerable.
“But there’s one more cast to play yet,” Sandra reminded them. The last effort was by some of the Finals, and was a stark Irish drama in which everyone eventually got drowned. As it was performed by five Irish members of the Senior class it was convincing and extremely moving. Lyn and Sandra were soon both in tears, partly of emotion at the morbid drama, partly at disappointment in finding that their scene was not the best.
“They’re so good!” sniffed Sandra, as the five Irish corpses resurrected to take the curtain. In the judges’ box at the back of the hall Mrs. Seymore said, “Of course the Blue Door gang are quite good enough to be put on show.”
“Yes, but there’s not time for more than one student production. I’m afraid it must be the Finals’ group. A pity—I wanted to give some of the juniors a chance—but one must be fair,” said Mr. Whitfield firmly.
The Blue Doors took it with very good grace, as there was obviously no question as to which scene had been most effective. On the way home Sandra said, “Oh, well, we must just resign ourselves to enjoying the Public Show from the point of view of lookers-on.”
“And then there’s the dance,” put in Vicky. “I know what! It’s Saturday tomorrow. Let’s go out in the morning and be very daring and each buy a new dress.”
“Ai shall choose a powder blue bombazine,” minced Bulldog. “Just my shade, my dear!”
Next morning they set out along Oxford Street, and tried every shop in their efforts to find something that would not make too much of a hole in their allowances. The assistants nearly had epileptic fits when, after trying on every dress in the shop, and parading in front of the boys, under a stream of caustic comment, the girls would smile sweetly and say, “Well, perhaps we’ll leave it for today…”
At last they had all found what they wanted. Lynette had an emerald green short-sleeved suit, Vicky a little black silk creation, and Sandra a peasant skirt and chiffon blouse.
“And now for goodness’ sake let’s have lunch! I’m a nervous wreck,” complained Jeremy. “Thank heavens I can wear my cords, same as usual!”
They had lunch at a vegetarian restaurant just for a change, and between shredded carrot and sips of orange juice stole peeps at their new purchases. As consolation for not being in the show, Mr. Whitfield had asked the Blue Doors to sell programmes.
“So we shall be able to have a good look at everyone,” remarked Lyn.
“And there’ll be no Mrs. Bosham, plus feather boa,” added Bulldog. “That’s one good thing.”
The day of the Public Show dawned bright and cloudless.
“Thank Heavens!” cried the Blue Doors, as they drew back their curtains. The morning was spent in slacks and dungarees, helping to cart chairs into the square, and to decorate it with flags and fairy lights. There was no stage, only a terraced bank at the far end, and convenient bushes, behind which were erected little canvas tents to act as dressing-rooms. All the Finals were in a terrific state
of tension. On this performance their futures depended. One student would win the Gold Medal, there were several other awards, but, above all, they would be seen by theatrical people and anything could happen.
“This time next year—it will be us taking part,” said Sandra.
“I wish it were this year,” grumbled Lyn, sweeping leaves off the lawn. “It’s just the right sort of day for our Importance scene.”
“Still, it’ll be fun selling programmes,” said Sandra.
“Gosh, look at the time!” shouted Vicky, who had been doing a few surreptitious acrobatics in a corner. “We must dash home and change.”
Helter-skelter down Fitzherbert Street they ran, and bathed and changed and did each other’s hair, and showed their new frocks to Mrs. Bosham, whose eyes nearly popped out of her head with sympathetic excitement. The boys merely damped down their hair with a little water and ran a brush carelessly over their shoes. They were back in the square, which was gay and spruce, before the first visitors arrived.
“It’s like Sports Day at school,” said Bulldog, “only even more exciting.”
And then the guests arrived. Parents and friends, agents and producers, film stars and stage stars. Between handing out programmes the Blue Doors would whisper to each other, “Look! There’s So-and-so.”
Felicity Warren arrived, very smart in a summery dress and a tiny hat. She spoke to Sandra for several minutes, telling her how the film was going, and how lively Maddy was.
“That was Felicity Warren!” Sandra told Lyn, not without pride.
“So we saw. How lovely she is!”
At last all were settled in their seats, the people who preferred the shade had changed places with those who liked the sun, and the Prologue was spoken. From their perch in one of the tall trees the Blue Doors were enjoying the show, but not without a touch of disappointment at not being in it. The Finals all acquitted themselves nobly, and the square echoed to the laughter, applause, and music.
Before the student production, which was the last item, there seemed to be a hitch. The interval music was played over and over again. Mr. Whitfield, with an harassed expression, kept popping back and forwards between the canvas dressing-tents. Finally, one of the first-termers came running up to the Blue Doors’ tree.
