Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  “Goodbye, Fenchester. We’ll soon be back!”

  11

  JELLIED EELS

  Maddy in London was like a cat on hot bricks. She was all over the place all the time, and at such a speed that Bulldog told her she would meet herself coming back one day, if she were not careful. Every morning she was up at six or seven, long before the others had yawned and turned over for an extra half-hour. She would bound out into Regent’s Park and feed the swans with bread, or, if she had none, cheat them with pieces of wood until they flapped their wings and squawked angrily. When the others came down to breakfast she would be polishing up her lines for the day, and would greet them cheerily.

  “For goodness’ sake don’t be so hearty, woman!” Jeremy snarled. “You look like an advertisement for Eno’s.”

  She was at the Academy long before anyone else, practising tonic sol-fa at the piano, doing acrobatics on the roof, and poking about the wardrobe, getting in Mrs. Bertram’s way and dressing up in anything she could lay hands on.

  In her class, the “Babies” as they were called, she was the undisputed leader, and whenever they were left to rehearse by themselves the role of producer automatically fell to her. She was the class representative for the Students’ Council, a sort of trade union that discussed problems and arguments among the pupils. And already she had a student production in rehearsal. The other members of the class ranged in age from twelve to fifteen, and although several of them had been on the stage ever since they could get licences, they held Maddy somewhat in respect, as her film Forsaken Crown was still attracting crowds to the Palaceum, Leicester Square. It was Maddy’s one grumble that the “Babies” were only allowed theatrical lessons in the morning. In the afternoon they had to settle down to fractions and spellings, just as at Fenchester High School. She was always in trouble for concealing a copy of a play under her desk, and often, as her lips moved silently as if working out an arithmetical problem she would be in reality swotting up her lines.

  When the Academy was over for the day Maddy would disappear with a swarm of the “Babies”, and they would wander over the face of London, causing havoc wherever they went. They had competitions in running up downward moving escalators, and played “last into the tube train”. Sometimes they went roller skating, and Maddy returned covered with bruises and dust. Sometimes they went to a news cinema where there was a good long Disney programme and not too much news. Other nights they stormed the box offices of theatres where they knew the shows were doing badly, and occasionally a kind manager would agree to let them in for nothing, as they were from the Academy, and in return they would clap like mad, however bad the play. Sandra found it impossible to coax Maddy into staying in to do her mending and write letters home, and usually had to do them for her.

  “I don’t know what our poor mother would say,” sighed Sandra, “to see her running wild like this.”

  “Oh, leave her alone. She’s having a wonderful time. And working hard, too,” said Jeremy. “There’s no doubt as to who is top dog among the ‘Babies’.”

  Maddy was playing Peter in Peter Pan, one of the Merry Wives in Shakespeare, and the maid in a gay little scene of Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme in the French acting class.

  “Such bounce,” sighed Jeremy after hearing her lines through. “I can’t think where you get it from.”

  “It’s sheer relief at not having a lot of lights and cameras around when you’re trying to act,” replied Maddy.

  “Do you really prefer the Academy to filming?” Jeremy asked.

  “Of course,” Maddy replied stoutly, “and besides you’re all here too.”

  “But you don’t see all that much of us.”

  “No, but you’re around. I can borrow money from you, and get Sandra to wash my hair and all that sort of thing.”

  The term seemed to fly by on wings. No sooner had they arrived at the Academy on a Monday morning than it seemed time to go home on Friday afternoon and make plans for the weekend. The money that they had saved while working during the previous term eked out their allowances, so there was no need to look for further employment until the Easter holidays.

  “I must get into a rep. this Easter,” said Nigel firmly, “otherwise I shan’t have the slightest idea how to set about the business side of the Blue Doors when we open up.”

  Once more he started writing letters and sending photos round to all the companies, and even visited some of the theatrical agents, sitting for hours in the tiny waiting-rooms, watching the stream of teddy-bear-coated actors and fur-coated actresses that went in and out. Everywhere he met with the same answer—“Come back when you’ve had some professional experience.” He found that having studied at the Academy meant next to nothing, in fact some agents seemed to bear a grudge against him on account of it.

  “A few years’ experience would have done you twice as much good,” he was told by an unpleasant little Cockney agent with a red face and a large cigar.

  “And yet,” thought Nigel, “one is told there is no chance on the stage nowadays unless one is trained.”

  At last came the welcome letter from a rep. in Scotland to say that they would take him as assistant business manager, if he would walk on occasionally.

  “That’s terrific!” he crowed. “I’ll learn all about front-of-house management now, and how to make a simply stupendous profit out of the Blue Door Theatre.”

  “Wouldn’t it be heavenly if we did,” mused Bulldog, “so that we could build a really terrific theatre with a revolving stage and everything.”

  “But what are we going to do?” asked Lyn. “This Easter there are no Academy tours going out that would suit us.”

  “Let’s stay in town,” suggested Vicky, “and get whatever work we can. We might get some filming or something.”

  “Yes, let’s stay,” said Maddy, “I haven’t really had time to explore London properly.”

  “You know it better already than we do.”

  The day after term ended Nigel departed for Scotland.

  “Bring us back some haggis,” they shouted at Euston Station after they had loaded him with comics, and Maddy had bought him some very sticky toffee.

  “Isn’t it horrid being split up?” grumbled Sandra. “Thank goodness we shall never have to be again, once we get back to Fenchester.”

  Next day they began their search for casual work. There were quite a few students staying in London with the same idea, and the Academy was proving helpful by posting up in the foyer every day a list of who was wanting what and where. By this means the Blue Doors found themselves working four or five days out of every week. They went down to the Pinetree Park Studios several times as extras on a stupendous historical film about the Great Fire of London—all except Maddy, whom they would not allow to accompany them, as it might do harm to her career to be recognized in the crowd after having starred in Forsaken Crown.

  “Oh, what a nuisance,” she grumbled, “I did want to come too.”

  “That child has no notion of prestige or position,” remarked Jeremy.

  “It’s incredible.”

  Lynette and Sandra and Vicky had a few days’ work as photographers’ models, posing for hours in such beautiful clothes that it was a wrench to exchange them for their own shabby garments when the day was over.

  “Well, couldn’t I advertise some children’s clothes?” Maddy wanted to know. “I had lots of offers when I was making Forsaken Crown. Toothpaste, too.”

  “No,” they told her, “it’s quite out of the question.”

  “But, why?” she wanted to know. “If you can, why can’t I?” It was impossible to make her understand that she had a reputation to keep up.

  “You go out and enjoy yourself tomorrow,” they told her, when they had got another day’s crowd work.

  Maddy found that exploring London by herself was beginning to pall. All the “Babies” had gone home for the holidays, and she felt a little lost without someone with whom to paddle in the Serpentine or feed the monke
ys at the Zoo.

  “I wish I could get a job like the others,” she mused.

  The following week, when the others had got a commission to walk on in a Shakespearean season in Regent’s Park, they asked Maddy if she would like to come along too and see if the producer could use her.

  “Oh, no,” she said sarcastically, “surely it’s below my dignity. And anyhow, I’ve got a job.”

  “You’ve got a job?”

  “Yes. I must fly now, or else I’ll be late.” And putting on her coat she ran out and banged the door of No. 37.

  “The little brat—she’s up to something,” remarked Jeremy.

  “I hope it’s nothing too terrible,” sighed Sandra. “You know what Maddy is.”

  That night they walked on as citizens in Julius Caesar, and from the bushes that served as wings watched the scenes they were not in. The play was all very familiar to the boys, who had toured in it.

  “I wonder,” mused Bulldog, “if it’s a step up from being a soldier to being a citizen? But at least it’s nice to have one’s knees covered.”

  It was getting dusk as they walked home, and people were coming out of the Gala, a theatre which seemed to have strayed somewhat off the beaten tracks of theatreland and was hidden in a back street of Soho.

  “Isn’t it nice,” said Lyn, “to think that they are the public and we’re not.”

  The gay lights of the theatre lit up the darkness of the mean street, and a barrel organ jangled away, playing musical comedy tunes of the ’twenties.

  “How nostalgic these tunes are,” remarked Jeremy, “even to us, and we were not even born then.” An old man was turning the handle of the machine, nodding his head and long grey locks in time to the music.

  “Isn’t he heavenly?” cried Lyn. “Oh, do let’s give him some money.”

  They looked around for his collecting hat or plate. A little girl appeared to be collecting from the crowd which streamed from the theatre.

  “Are you his little girl?” a large lady in a sable cloak asked the child.

  “Oh, no,” said a voice that was extremely familiar to the Blue Doors, “his great-granddaughter. There are seven of us.”

  The lady turned to her companion. “How nicely spoken!” she said. “Gladys, give her ten shillings.” But before the crisp slip of paper was placed in the hat, Sandra had pounced.

  “Maddy!” she cried. “Come home at once! Oh, how could you.”

  “Oh, hullo. Told you I’d got a job, didn’t I?”

  “You little idiot” ranted Jeremy. “Supposing someone recognizes you?” and he dragged her roughly away by the arm.

  “Hi—wait a minute. I must give the money to Mr. Chubb.” She bounded across to the old gentleman and handed him the hat. He counted its contents rapidly with one hand, while the other churned out Vilia. Then he pressed some of the money into Maddy’s palm.

  “Thank you, Missy, kindly,” he said. “Sorry you can’t stay.”

  “So’m I,” said Maddy in an aggrieved tone. “I was having a lovely time. Bye-bye.” All the way home they scolded her.

  “If you ever do anything like it again I shall tell Mummy and Daddy, and they’ll make you go home at once. Whatever made you do it?”

  “Well, you’d all got jobs, so I didn’t see why I shouldn’t. And I bet I’ve made more than you tonight.” She jingled her pocketful of coppers and sixpences. “Mr. Chubb was such a nice gentleman.”

  “But however did you meet him?” expostulated Lynette.

  “It was like this,” said Maddy. “Someone at the Academy told me that a friend of his had hired a barrel organ for some charity or other, and told me where you could get them, so I went along there, but they wouldn’t let me have one. Then just as I was going away I saw Mr. Chubb and he had just got his organ, so he said I could go along and help him. And what do you think we had for supper?”

  “What?”

  “Jellied eels.”

  “Oh, Maddy, you’ll be ill.”

  “No, I shan’t. They were lovely. We ate them at a stall—a lovely stripy stall.”

  “Oh, you little horror! Thank goodness term starts next week. It’ll keep you out of mischief.”

  “Our last term,” sighed Jeremy. “Isn’t it awful to think of? How quickly the time has gone…”

  “People say,” said Vicky, “that schooldays are the best days of one’s life. But they’re wrong, because at school one has to sit through so much that is boring. I’m sure that the really happiest time is spent during the specialized training that comes directly after schooldays.”

  “How lucky we are,” observed Jeremy, “to have the Blue Door Theatre to return to, so that all this scrapping about looking for work is fun, and not stark necessity.”

  Gradually the thought of their return to Fenchester filled their horizon. Nigel returned from Scotland with a very thorough idea of how the Blue Door Theatre’s finances should be managed.

  “We must find a really dependable person to work in the box office,” he announced.

  “When the box office has been built,” added Bulldog, under his breath.

  “Not just someone capable of taking in the money, but a sort of a secretary with an eye to business,” went on Nigel.

  “Let’s advertise in The Stage,” suggested Lyn. “It’d be fun to be putting in an advertisement, instead of scanning the ‘Artistes Wanted’ column.”

  “And also,” continued Nigel, ignoring the interruptions, “we must encourage permanent bookings by all our friends and relations—you know, keeping the same seats for a family on the same night each week.”

  “If we could almost fill the theatre in that way,” said Sandra, “we should have nothing to worry about.”

  “We can write to Terry at Tutworth and warn him to be ready to leave there about September,” said Vicky.

  “Yes, if you’re sure he’s really good at scenic design. We can’t employ anyone just for friendship’s sake.”

  “Of course not, but Terry’s every bit good enough,” the girls reassured Nigel.

  And then began the discussion as to which of their fellow students they should invite to join the company.

  “We want about three,” said Nigel. “An A.S.M., a stage manager, and a character woman. To save salaries we shall have to employ other people by the week as we need them.”

  “Obviously we should take Myrtle, if she’ll come,” suggested Jeremy. “We’d never find a better character actress, and, after all, Fenchester is a little better than Wigan.”

  “Just a little…”

  Next day Nigel approached Myrtle and told her about the Blue Doors’ scheme.

  “So if you’re interested,” he finished up.

  “You mean—you’re offering me a job?” she inquired incredulously.

  “Yes. I’m afraid the pay won’t be much, but we’re going to try to do interesting work.”

  There were tears in Myrtle’s blue eyes.

  “I’d take it if I had to pay you,” she announced. “The thought of having to start off round the agents again at my age was killing me. And after the heavenly time I’ve had here at the Academy… I’ll never be able to thank you enough, deary.”

  Somehow the news soon went round the Academy that the Blue Doors were opening their own company and they found themselves suddenly the most popular people in the school. Invitations to lunch and dinner and to parties and theatres and picnics simply swamped them. They accepted them all and lived on the fat of the land until people realized that no bribes could influence their decisions. For stage manager they had decided on Ali, the Indian boy, who had resolved to give up acting and go in for stage-managing professionally. He promised to come to them for six months to gain experience before looking for a West End position. As assistant stage manager they decided to have Billy, on condition that he did not expect to be given any parts, for his time at the Academy had in no way lessened the impediment in his speech.

  “Yeth,” he said, “I know I lithp, tho I might
ath well thtage-manage.”

  “And we’ll jolly well pay him a bit better salary than we had as A.S.M.s,” said Vicky, “and treat him like a human being.”

  Their advertisement in The Stage for a box-office secretary with some theatrical experience produced the most extraordinary selection of people. They called at the Academy every day between four and five o’clock all that week, and Nigel interviewed them in the foyer, feeling madly important and rather embarrassed. They were nearly all women; some were faded, dejected spinsters with a fervent desire to “keep up appearances”, others were ex-actresses and chorus girls whom Nigel felt sure could not add two and two correctly. Of the few men who applied each seemed to have something wrong with him, cross eyes, or no roof to his mouth.

  “It’s no good,” sighed Nigel, when the last one had been interviewed, “we couldn’t have employed any of them. They’re just not us.”

  For the next few weeks they kept their eyes on the “Situations Wanted” columns of the newspapers, but none of the advertisers sounded of the right type.

  “They all sound either too ‘refaned’ or else absolute scoundrels,” objected Jeremy.

  Then one day Maddy said, “Nigel, dear—”

  “Yes? I presume you want something?”

  “I want you to see a friend of mine whom I think would do for the box-office bloke.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Wait and see. When will you meet him?”

  “Tell him to call round at the digs tonight. Is it someone from the Academy?”

  “Oh, no. A very dependable sort of person.”

  “Well, I don’t promise anything.”

  That evening as Nigel and Jeremy sat writing letters in the dining-room of No. 37, Mrs. Bosham put her head round the door.

  “A gentleman to see you, Mr. Nigel.”

  “Show him in, please, Mrs. Bosham.”

  In came an elderly, grey-haired gentleman in an old-fashioned suit that smelt slightly of mothballs. He bowed with old-world courtesy.

  “Mr. Halford, I presume?”

  “Yes,” said Nigel. “You’re a friend of Maddy’s, I hear.”