Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  “Isn’t he delightful?” drawled a voice beside the Blue Doors.

  “Heaven. I wonder why we’ve never seen him before?”

  “That’s our Bulldog!” Vicky whispered proudly. “Oh, I’m so relieved!”

  A few minutes later, when the dancing had begun again, Bulldog joined them beaming all over his face.

  “Was it all right?” he asked.

  “You know it was!” they laughed.

  “Well, the manager liked it. Come on, let’s eat.”

  He put away a simply enormous meal at the management’s expense. The others ate less at their own.

  “Must take nourishment when it’s twice nightly,” he said. “I’m on again at eleven, so don’t get through dinner too quickly.”

  They danced between every course to make it spin out, but the floor was so crowded that it was more like marking time.

  “I’m quite looking forward to the next session,” Bulldog confessed, trampling on Sandra’s toes. Sandra stood still to allow someone to get off the hem of her dress.

  “Yes. So am I. Are you going to do the same things?”

  “I don’t think I’ll do the impersonations. I’ll do the one about the cat burglar instead.”

  During Bulldog’s second appearance Jeremy suddenly choked into his fifth glass of orangeade.

  “Sh!” hissed the rest of the Blue Doors. Jeremy recovered himself and began to whisper to them violently.

  “Do be quiet, Jeremy! Wait till afterwards!”

  But Jeremy kept on mumbling until he had gained their attention.

  “Over there—Roma Seymore and Mr. Whitfield.”

  “What!”

  It was true. At a table on the far side of the room sat the director of the Academy and Roma Seymore, looking very distinguished in evening dress. They were watching Bulldog carefully, smiling occasionally, and making remarks to each other. Bulldog could not see them, as the tables were now in darkness and the spotlight blinded him. The whole act went with more of a swing than the first, and Bulldog had to bow again and again. When he rejoined the Blue Doors at the table they got up to go.

  “Are we going already?” he asked, in surprise.

  “Yes, I think we’d better, before the rush for taxis begins.”

  Outside, Nigel said to him, “Well, you’re in a nice position now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roma Seymore and old Whitfield were in there.”

  “Were they?” said Bulldog calmly, then did a terrific “double take”. “Whaat?”

  “Yes. Over in the corner opposite us. They recognized you, of course, and I think they saw us.”

  “Little fishes!” said Bulldog. “That’s done it! They’ll be livid to think I’m working.”

  “But ‘The Hotch Potch’ is a very respectable place,” objected Sandra.

  “It’s not that. It’s just that it’s a rule that students are not to do outside work during term time,” said Nigel.

  “Oh, dear!” sighed Bulldog. “I’m in for it.”

  Next day after prayers Bulldog was summoned to Mr. Whitfield’s office. He went in with quaking heart.

  “I enjoyed your little act last night at ‘The Hotch Potch’,” said Mr. Whitfield, “but I should like to know why you are doing it when it is a rule that no professional work is to be done during term time?”

  Bulldog cleared his throat.

  “Well, sir, it’s really on account of our parents. We don’t want to ask them for any more money, and living in London is so expensive—so we’ve all got jobs for the evenings.”

  “All of you?”

  “Yes. Vicky’s starting in the chorus of Sit Tight at the Abbey tonight, and the others are walking on in Gloriana at Her Majesty’s.”

  “I see. I suppose that was the reason for the influenza—last week?”

  “Er—yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Well, if the course here is proving too expensive for you and you are able to find professional work already—” began Mr. Whitfield, and Bulldog broke in with a horrified gasp.

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s not like that! We’re only doing these rather odd jobs to make money so that we can stay on at the Academy.”

  “I see.” For a few minutes Mr. Whitfield tapped on the desk with his pencil, then he said, “Well, if it’s really necessary, I can’t stop you, I suppose. But I do disapprove strongly, and as it is a flagrant piece of disobedience I hope that you will not talk about it to the other students. And any work that the others miss through matinees will have to be made up, of course.”

  “Oh yes, sir. They’re awfully worried about that.”

  “And next term you must try to live more economically. No more outings to ‘The Hotch Potch’.” His eyes twinkled. “How did you manage that if things are so bad?” Bulldog hung his head and blushed.

  “Pawned my watch.”

  Mr. Whitfield flung his head back and laughed.

  “Poor Bulldog! For your own first night! Oh, what it is to be young.” And Bulldog realized suddenly that Mr. Whitfield would have exchanged all his wealth and position to be young again, and he felt somehow superior and pitying.

  “You can go now. By the way, I thought the charlady sketch extremely funny.”

  That night Vicky had her first glimpse of just how hard the chorus works. Up and down six flights of stone stairs she ran, changing from crinoline to bathing suit, from bathing suit to skiing clothes, and danced madly, ballet, then tap, then ballet on the enormous stage of the Abbey Theatre, to a jewel-bedecked first-night audience. As she took her make-up off, she felt as if she had been playing rugger. The chorus dressing-room was long, and had a double-sided mirror running down the centre, and lengthy dressing-tables. As they dressed, the forty dancers and show girls chattered like the occupants of a parrot-house.

  “Coming out for a coffee?” Vicky’s neighbour inquired in a friendly manner.

  “No, thanks. I’m meeting some people.”

  “Coo—aren’t you the gay one! Nice people?”

  “Yes,” said Vicky. “Very nice.” She ran down the stairs, called goodnight to the stage door-keeper, and was out into the lights of Leicester Square. In a little all-night snack bar she met the four weary walkers-on.

  “Walk on!” groaned Jeremy. “It’s a day’s march. Round and round that stage as soldiers.”

  “Did it go down well?”

  “Yes. It’s bad, really, but the audience loved it. How did yours go?”

  “Fine. Audience lapped it up.”

  “But not like the straight theatre, is it?”

  “No. It’s exciting, but—I don’t know…”

  They sipped coffee until Bulldog arrived.

  “How’s Mayfair?” they teased.

  “Super! I had a wonderful dinner tonight.”

  “Beast. We’ll have to eat at the Boshery.” That was the name they had given Mrs. Bosham’s.

  They strolled home through the streets that were shiny with freshly fallen rain; the lights, reflected on the pavements, making them as gold as Dick Whittington believed them to be. At the corner of Tottenham Court Road there was a barrow of roasting chestnuts. They bought a bag each from the friendly Italian, and ate them all the way home, leaving a trail of empty shells behind them.

  9

  PLANS AND PROBLEMS

  Maddy walked quickly up and down Fenchester Station, partly because it was cold, but mainly to stop herself from dancing with excitement. “Life just couldn’t be more thrilling!” she reflected. Here she was, a film star overnight, through the success of Forsaken Crown. She had left Fenchester High School two days previously, at the end of the autumn term, and after Christmas she would accompany the Blue Doors to the Academy, where a junior department was being opened. And today all the Blue Doors were returning in force for Christmas, after a year’s absence. She had last seen her sister Sandra on her runaway escapade to London, but she looked upon the other five as practically brothers and sisters. She opened her handbag, a
newly acquired and very grown-up affair, peered in the mirror and removed a few smuts from her face, wondering why they always seemed so attracted to her. She tightened the ribbons on her fair plaits, and as she did so the train whistled round the bend.

  The Blue Doors were hanging out of the windows, one dark head, two fair, and two carroty ones. They cheered as they saw her, and she hopped from one leg to the other, pink in the face, grinning from ear to ear. They descended from the train in a body, and there was a pandemonium of kissing and back-slapping.

  “At last, at last!” cried Bulldog melodramatically. “Gosh, you’ve grown, Maddy.”

  “We’ve seen your film. It’s heavenly!”

  “How’s London?”

  “Where’s a porter?”

  “Don’t say you’ve started a handbag at last!”

  No-one could talk properly for excitement.

  “Daddy’s calling for you all in the car,” said Maddy. “But he said he’d probably be late, so we’re to go into the refreshment room and wait for him.”

  They sat on their luggage in the crowded refreshment room and drank cups of tasteless tea and could not stop talking.

  “Oh, tell me all about the Academy!” begged Maddy. “Do you know what age most of the Junior Class will be?”

  “Between twelve and fifteen,” Vicky informed her. “They’ve been having auditions for it these last few days.”

  “Why didn’t I have an audition?”

  “They’d seen the film and were willing to take you on that, I suppose.”

  “Oh, how exciting! For the first time in my life I’m longing for Christmas to be over.”

  “I’m not,” sighed Bulldog. “I want just to eat and sleep and eat for weeks.”

  “Lazy as ever!” teased Maddy.

  “I’ve been working very hard, excuse me, madam!” objected Bulldog. “But of course—she doesn’t know about our jobs, does she?”

  “Better tell her, I suppose. But keep it dark, Maddy.”

  Maddy’s eyes grew round as saucers as she scented a secret.

  “What’s this?”

  “Well, we’ve been doing some jobs during the term to make some extra pocket-money. Vicky’s been in the chorus at the Abbey, we’ve been walking on in Gloriana, and Bulldog has been doing a cabaret act in a night club.”

  “A cabaret act? I thought that was something to do with the can-can?”

  “No, stupid! I’ve been doing sketches and impersonations.”

  “In a night club! Oh, Bulldog, was it very wicked?”

  “Wicked? About as respectable as the Fenchester Ladies’ Institute.”

  “That reminds me, how is our dear friend Mrs. Potter-Smith?” Jeremy wanted to know.

  “Don’t mention that woman to me!” Maddy made an awful grimace meant to resemble Mrs. Potter-Smith. “She nearly ruined the film, and my chances of seeing the première. And I don’t think she’s finished with us yet.”

  Bulldog giggled reminiscently.

  “D’you remember the time when she took the part of the Greek goddess in that awful play the Ladies’ Institute did?”

  They were in the middle of a flood of “D’you remember”s when Mr. Fayne arrived, kissed Sandra, and shook hands with all the others.

  “It’s good to see you back,” he said. “The Avenue has been too quiet this last year.”

  After strapping a mountain of luggage on the back, they piled into Mr. Fayne’s car and drove through the town which seemed so strange yet familiar after such a long absence. Their mothers were all hovering near their own front doors, and were out on the doorsteps as soon as they heard the car. There was more kissing and hugging and the Avenue was full of laughter and shouting once again. Heads appeared at the windows of the houses opposite, and more than one elderly voice said, with a mixture of interest and disapproval, “So they’re back, are they?”

  While they unstrapped some luggage from the back of the car, Vicky took the opportunity to whisper to Jeremy.

  “Look, I don’t suppose there will be much chance for all of us to get together until after Christmas, so shall we say the morning after Boxing Day definitely?”

  “O.K.,” said Jeremy. “Tell the others.”

  Christmas passed in a whirl of cooking, buying presents, putting up decorations, and, of course, eating. The Blue Doors glimpsed each other in the town as they accompanied their mothers on shopping expeditions, in church on Christmas Day, and when being taken to be shown to relations. But it was not until the day after Boxing Day that they could forgather in the Halfords’ dining-room and take stock of themselves. No-one had actually put into words what they were meeting for, but each felt that there were things to be settled.

  “Well,” said Nigel. “Here we are—back in Fenchester.”

  “And isn’t it fun?” said Vicky. “Everyone seems so much nicer than when we went away.”

  “And next time we come back,” went on Nigel, “it may be for good. So I think we ought to start making plans for the reopening of the Blue Door Theatre.”

  “But listen,” said Maddy, in an aggrieved voice. “When are you thinking of opening it?”

  “Next Autumn, I should think,” said Jeremy. “Nigel will have had over two years at the Academy, and we shall have had about eighteen months.”

  “But what about me?” said Maddy. “I shall only have had two terms.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to stay on at the Academy and come to us in the holidays.”

  “Anyway,” said Lynette, “once you get to London you’ll probably be filming again soon, won’t you?”

  “Don’t know,” said Maddy unenthusiastically. “Oh, why am I always just this little bit behind the rest of you! And I shall never catch up.”

  “All right, then,” said Nigel. “That’s settled. Except for Maddy, we leave the Academy after two more terms. Now the thing is—how large a company do we want, who’s going to produce, what about salaries, and a hundred and one other things.”

  “I think,” said Lynette, “that the seven of us should form the permanent company, and take it in turns to produce. We should employ permanent stage managers and scenic artists, but get extra actors down for odd weeks as we need them. But the question is—money.”

  “If we followed your suggestion, Lyn, how should we work out the salaries?”

  “Well, we could pay off our liabilities, salaries to stage management and to the artistes we’d called in, and share out whatever was left, after we’d paid for rent, lighting, scenery, advertising, etcetera.”

  “Doesn’t sound as if there would be much left,” said Bulldog glumly. “You know, it’s a jolly big proposition.” They were silent for some seconds, while the financial side of the question assumed gigantic proportions.

  “You know,” said Sandra, “there’s an awful lot to be done before we dare to open the theatre professionally. I don’t know what sort of condition it’s in now.”

  “Let’s go round and look at it,” said Vicky eagerly. “Who’s got the key, Maddy?”

  “I think it’s still under the brick. I haven’t been in for ages. The Bishop has used it once or twice for missionary meetings, otherwise it’s still empty.”

  “But who does it belong to technically?” asked Jeremy. “We call it ours, but it isn’t really. We’ve never paid rent for it or anything.”

  “I think,” said Nigel, “that in actual fact it belongs to the town council. I believe that is where the Bishop applied in the first place, when he got permission for us to use it.”

  “But if we’re going to open it professionally, we shall have to pay rent for it, I suppose. But who to?”

  “The town council, of course.”

  “Oh, isn’t it complicated! Come on, let’s go and have a look at it.” They set out for the theatre, stopping to have a coffee at Bonner’s on the way. Pleasant Street seemed narrower and grimier than ever, and the theatre, when they reached it, seemed even smaller than they had remembered it. The Seymore Trophy stood on its brack
et rather forlornly.

  “I must polish it,” said Sandra. They looked round rather dubiously.

  “We really ought to have tip-up seats, you know,” observed Nigel.

  “Those curtains are still a trifle odd. They’re not heavy enough,” said Bulldog.

  “We could extend the stage,” suggested Jeremy, “by putting on an apron in front.”

  “And what,” said Lynette, “what about dressing-room space?”

  They groaned.

  “We need several—if not many—hundred pounds,” said Nigel. They sank down in chairs and pondered the situation grimly.

  “Why didn’t we ever think about this before? We’ve been imagining that we could open it up—just like that.”

  “We didn’t realize,” said Lynette, “how much this theatre lacks that a real rep. must have.”

  “It’s no good our aiming at something like Covent Garden,” continued Nigel.

  “If we can get it as good as the theatre at the Academy it will be all right to start with.”

  “But how can we get the several hundred pounds necessary?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Maddy suddenly. “I forgot. I’ve got several hundred pounds. More, I expect, from the film.”

  “Don’t be silly!” said Sandra. “You know we wouldn’t touch that. And anyhow, Daddy has put it into an annuity for you, so that you’ll get a certain amount each year for the rest of your life.”

  “How dull!” said Maddy. “I wanted to squander it.”

  “Perhaps the Bishop—” began Vicky.

  “Bishops don’t earn much!” said Maddy. “I know because his housekeeper told me he only has cake one day a week.”

  “That’s not because he can’t afford it,” said Nigel. “And anyhow, he’s helped us enough already.”