Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  “Yes, they are—drawing in—I think I’ll go to bed, Mrs. Bosham.”

  Despair stalked in the cold, shabby bedroom, so she decided to pack that night instead of the following morning. Everything she packed brought a fresh twinge of nostalgia. Her worn-out ballet shoes, copies of all the plays they had done at the Academy in the past two years, the dress she had worn when she first went to the Tiller and Webb offices. The effort of shutting the trunks and cases tired her out, and at last she was able to sleep.

  Next morning all was a hustle and a bustle. So many oddments had been left out, and Mrs. Bosham kept adding things that Lyn might need on the journey—a packet of sandwiches, some back numbers of Woman’s Chat, some milk in a medicine bottle. As Lyn kissed her plump cheek goodbye she reflected sadly how over everything was. If and when she came back she would probably not return to No. 37, and she mentally said a long farewell to the blistered front door, the iron railings round the area steps, and the shabby lace curtains at the windows. And then it was all gone, and the taxi driver was rattling away down Tottenham Court Road whistling happily, as if this were a day like any other. And Lynette realized that he was going to pass the St. Christopher’s Theatre. “Oh, no,” she thought, and was about to direct him another way, but then she told herself not to be so sentimental. Already the posters for the next show were up outside the theatre. New names—new faces—fresh music—more laughter… There was no stopping it.

  At the station Timothy was already waiting with a little buttonhole of rosebuds for her, and all the theatrical magazines to read on the journey.

  “Why are you so sweet to me?” Lynette demanded as they struggled with her luggage, “when I’ve been instrumental in ruining your play?”

  “Because,” said Timothy, “I see in you my future leading lady. You have inspired ideas in me for at least six plays, in the last six weeks. That’s why I carry your cases for you.”

  The train was crowded, but at last Lyn found a seat, stowed her luggage in the guard’s van, and got out on to the platform again to talk to Timothy. They were deep in a discussion on Bernard Shaw when the whistle went, and Lyn had to dash back into the train. She smiled while she waved, but as the figure of Timothy became smaller and smaller her smile disappeared gradually, until she was leaning out of the window staring at the rails that slid relentlessly by, taking her away from London. For how long?

  “Can’t we have that window shut?” grated a pernickety voice. Lyn turned a face of such acute despair to the speaker that she added:

  “Oh, aren’t you feeling well?”

  “No,” quavered Lynette, and pushed her way out of the carriage to the toilet.

  “Train sickness, I suppose,” agreed her fellow-travellers.

  But it was heart sickness that Lynette suffered in an atmosphere of disinfectant and train wheels. Fragments of wisdom came to her aid—“Progress on the stage is often crab-like…” “Without looking aside, you must stubbornly go on, fanatically bending it all to your will…” “You’ll be back…” “I see in you my future leading lady…”

  At last she was able to face the carriage full of sandwich-eating, newspaper-scanning travellers, and she buried herself in the books that Timothy had given her. The carriage got stuffy and smoky and full of snores, and Lynette lapsed into a miserable semi-coma.

  About three o’clock the scenery became familiar. She recognized Fennymead Castle and began to tidy herself. Already London seemed far behind and a new chapter begun.

  She had not let anyone know what time she was coming, so there was nobody to meet her. She left her luggage in the cloakroom, had a wash and brush up, and decided to walk through the town via the Blue Door Theatre, to see if anyone were there. It was a clear autumn Sunday, with the children coming out of Sunday school. Fenchester seemed clean and small and quiet after London. She noticed everywhere there were posters advertising the opening of the theatre in two weeks’ time, and in the photographer’s window were large portraits of all the company. At last she was in Pleasant Street, and there was the theatre, bright and clean as a new pin, with a little box office built on to the front. In it sat Mr. Chubb, looking as proud as a captain at the wheel of his ship. He was going over some accounts and looked up when Lynette tapped on the window pane.

  “Ah, dear young lady! How very nice to welcome you home. We’ve been half expecting you all day. They’re having a little read through on the stage.”

  “I’ll go in, then,” said Lyn. “Doesn’t the theatre look lovely? And you’ve got out some awfully good posters.”

  “Colourful, aren’t they?” agreed the business manager proudly.

  Inside, the theatre seemed much larger, and the tip-up seats had taken away all resemblance to the chapel that it used to be. The six Blue Doors were up on the stage reading Little Women. Myrtle was there too, and Ali and Billy were doing something on step-ladders at the back of the stage. Lyn stood and watched. They were too engrossed to notice her. She sat down and looked around her. Yes, this was where she belonged all right. She looked around the walls, at the Seymore Trophy on its bracket, the photos of previous productions of their amateur days, and she sighed. Maddy glanced up.

  “There’s Lyn!” she shouted. Everyone peered into the dimness of the little auditorium.

  “So it is,” said Nigel. “Hi ya! Be with you in a minute. Let’s just finish this scene.” And they continued as if it were the most normal thing in the world for Lyn to have deserted them, to have taken part in an outstanding failure in the West End, and then to return to them once more.

  “O.K.,” said Nigel. “Let’s break.” And they jumped down off the stage, which had now been built higher and wider. They chatted happily to her, obviously sincerely pleased at her return. No-one mentioned Beloved Viper. The conversation was all about the Blue Door Theatre, and what ideas had she on the production of Little Women. Terry, from Tutworth Wells, appeared from nowhere, up to his elbows in paint as usual, and said, “Hullo, you,” as if he’d last seen her the day before. He seemed perfectly at home with the rest of the company.

  “Come on,” said Jeremy. “We’d better get home. Mother is sort of expecting you in time for tea.” The five new-comers to the company had found digs in the same road as the others.

  “They were a bit doubtful about having me,” laughed Ali. “I think they expected me to wear a loin cloth and beat on a tom-tom or something. But when they discovered that I spoke English, and that they’d seen me in films, they decided I must be all right.”

  Lynette’s parents welcomed her without fuss.

  “Eat up your tea, now,” said her mother as if she were ten again and had never left home to be an actress.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful to have a home to come back to,” she thought, remembering how home ties and duties used to irk her in the early Blue Door days, before she had ever been far enough away to appreciate her parents and all they had done for her.

  She had been prepared to be quite unhappy for the first few months, but the two rehearsal weeks for Little Women were so crammed with work that she literally did not have time. With a long part like Jo, and also the production to contend with, her hands were full. Maddy was playing Amy; Vicky, Beth; Sandra, Meg; Nigel, Laurie; Bulldog, Mr. March; Jeremy, Mr. Lawrence; Myrtle, Mrs. March. They had called a few ex-Academy students down for the small parts left over, and it seemed to be perfect casting. Sandra insisted that they should hire the correct costumes from London.

  “We’re professionals now, so we must do things in a professional manner,” was the phrase on the lips of all of them. There was great excitement in the town over the coming first night of the repertory.

  “We’ve been booked out for weeks,” Mr. Chubb told Lyn, “and there’s going to be a whale of a queue for the cheap seats.”

  “Two weeks really is the perfect rehearsal time for rep.,” remarked Vicky. “Neither too long nor too short.”

  By the dress rehearsal they were word perfect and beautifully produced. The cost
umes were charming, and Terry had surpassed himself with the set.

  “And there’s nothing in the play to offend anyone,” said Nigel. “It’s a safe bet.”

  On the night, the front half of the theatre was filled with their parents, friends, and relations, and they had all chivalrously paid for their seats. The Bishop was there, benign as ever, the Mayor and Corporation, “in mufti” as Maddy put it, and most of the Town Council, Miss Gaunt and all the staff of the girls’ school and the grammar school, Mr. Smallgood and Whittlecock, and Mrs. Potter-Smith with her yes-woman, Miss Thropple, both wearing ridiculous hats. Lord Moulcester and a party of friends were there, and a bevy of the Blue Doors’ old school friends. Timothy Carew, too, had come down for the occasion. The unbookable seats could have been filled six times over and some late-comers were standing at the back. Ali and Billy were completely dependable on the stage-management side, so there were no worries for the players, except their own performances. In the new dressing-rooms that were light and spacious and well-equipped they took stock of things.

  “Well, we’re here, where we always hoped to be. Let’s make a go of it,” said Nigel. And with wishes for good luck in all directions they went into the tiny wings and said to Ali, “Take it away.”

  The curtains swished up and the Blue Doors’ professional first night had begun. Lyn was horribly, horribly scared. She had not realized how much the first night of Beloved Viper had shaken her nerve, but a glance round the stage at the dear old familiar faces of the Blue Doors reassured her. Here she was among friends, among real people, and no-one would let her down.

  The audience lapped it up, laughing and crying in the appropriate places. Even Mrs. Potter-Smith had to admit it was good. In the laughter they could each distinguish that of their own parents and particular friends, which added zest to their performances. And then came the final curtain, and with it a burst of applause and cheers that left no doubt that the Fenchester Repertory was to be a success.

  “The first of many,” said Nigel to Lyn as they beamed round at each other. Everyone seemed to be smiling as they took the curtain: Lyn, Nigel, Jeremy, Sandra, Maddy, Bulldog, Vicky, Mr. and Mrs. Fayne, Mr. and Mrs. Halford, Mr. and Mrs. Darwin, the Bishop, the Vicar and his wife, Lord Moulcester, Miss Gaunt, Timothy, Terry, Myrtle, Ali, Billy, Mr. Smallgood and Whittlecock, the Mayor, the town councillors, the school children, the whole theatre was one broad smile, and looking round at it all Lynette was glad, so very glad, that she had come home.

  THE CURTAIN FALLS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PAMELA BROWN (1924–1989) was a British writer, actor, then television producer. She was just fourteen when she started writing her first book, and the town of Fenchester in the book is inspired by her home town of Colchester. During the Second World War, she went to live in Wales, so her first book, The Swish of the Curtain, was not published until 1941, when she was sixteen. She used the earnings from the books to train at RADA, and became an actor and a producer of children’s television programmes.

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  COPYRIGHT

  Pushkin Press

  71–75 Shelton Street

  London, WC2H 9JQ

  Copyright © The Estate of Pamela Brown 2018

  Golden Pavements was first published in Great Britain, 1947

  First published by Pushkin Press in 2018

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  ISBN 13: 978–1–78269–190–7

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