Blue Door Venture: Book 4 E-Book

Pamela Brown

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Blue Door Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 282

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The fourth book in the Blue Door series, which starts with The Swish of the Curtain, the classic story which inspired actors from Maggie Smith to Eileen Atkins 'I wanted to act before I read this book, and afterwards there was no stopping me' Maggie Smith During the afternoon rehearsal Mr Chubb poked his nose round the door and called out, 'You'd better be good this evening. Mrs Potter-Smith has just rung up and booked three seats.' They groaned expressively. 'Is that woman still alive?' demanded Maddy. The Blue Door Theatre Company has finally been launched in Fenchester, and if they can manage the money worries, the temperamental heating and the rumours spread by their old enemy Mrs Potter-Smith, the young crew might actually make it a success - success that seems assured when an unexpected helper arrives. But is Lucky everything he seems - or is the brand-new Blue Door Theatre Company about to face its worst luck yet? 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 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.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE1THEATRE COMPANY2COLD COMFORT3SNOW-FLAKE BALLET4ENTER LUCKY5A SENSE OF BUSINESS6THE UNEMPLOYED7SPLIT UP8THE STREET CALLED LINDEN GROVE9THE OPEN ROAD10NICK’S CAFF11VILLAGE DRAMA12FARMHOUSE TEA13ILL WIND14ENCOUNTER15GATHERING IN PENLANNOCK16MAIL BAG17THE VALLEY OF DESPOND18AMBUSH19CURTAIN CALLABOUT THE AUTHORCOPYRIGHT

1

THEATRE COMPANY

‘Gosh, it’s cold!’

As they turned the corner of Pleasant Street and made for the Blue Door Theatre there was a very wintry gust of wind that made them clutch their scarves tightly round their necks and gasp for breath.

‘Yes,’ said Nigel, ‘I’m afraid we’re in for a bad winter. And it can make all the difference to us…’

The Blue Door Theatre had been running for nearly four months, and Fenchester had backed it up splendidly. Most nights of the week the little theatre was nicely full, and on Fridays and Saturdays it was packed as tightly as regulations would allow.

‘If only we had a gallery!’ Mr Chubb, the elderly business manager, would groan. But expenses were formidable. There were so many items to be considered: salaries, scenery, costumes, posters advertising their shows… Each week the amount left over to share amongst themselves for pocket-money was horribly small.

‘You mean,’ pursued Jeremy, ‘that if we have bad weather so that people stay away, we shan’t be able to start paying back the loan the Town Council gave us when we started?’

‘Exactly,’ said Nigel. ‘That’s so, isn’t it, Mr Chubb?’ From deep inside the collar of his overcoat Mr Chubb agreed.

Lyn pulled the hood of her thick coat up over her long dark hair and said thoughtfully, ‘But we’re sure to do good business at Christmas, aren’t we? Especially if we do a pantomime.’

Bulldog scratched his ginger head in a worried manner. ‘As far as I can see, it all boils down to the boiler…’ The heating system of the theatre was Bulldog’s responsibility, and the bane of his life. ‘If only it will stop being temperamental, we may be able to keep the temperature up to something fairly comfortable inside the theatre, so that people will still come, if only to keep warm. But if the stove conks out we’re done for.’

Outside the theatre they took the key from the usual hiding-place under a brick, and unlocked. Mr Chubb went at once into the tiny box-office and settled himself at the desk with plans of the seating before him. It was cheering to see one or two people already waiting to book seats, even at ten o’clock on a cold December morning.

‘Come on,’ said Lyn, when the bare rehearsal light on the stage had been switched on. ‘Let’s get cracking. We’ll see if anyone knows anything about Act Two.’

Her brother Jeremy groaned. ‘I’m afraid I hardly know a word. I only just seem to have learned the last play.’

‘You should thank your lucky stars that we’re doing fortnightly rep., not weekly,’ Lyn rebuked him.

They were rehearsing a detective play called Murder in Mid-Channel, and it involved many difficult stage falls. By the time they broke for ten minutes for coffee at eleven-thirty, they were all inclined to be stiff and bruised—except Vicky, the dancer, who specialized in that sort of thing. ‘It’s all a matter of relaxation,’ she told them. ‘Don’t you remember being taught that at the Academy?’

As they sat round the table in the grubby café opposite the theatre, sipping coffee made with tinned milk but which was at least hot, they formed a colourful group. There were the Halfords—the twins, Vicky and Bulldog, red-headed and freckled, and Nigel, their big brother, dark and brown-eyed; Sandra Fayne, fair and frail-looking; Lynette Darwin, dark and striking, and her brother Jeremy in a pale blue sweater that matched his eyes and suited his curly fair hair. And then, of course, Ali, the dark, limpid-eyed Indian boy who had become their stage manager. Myrtle gave a fruity laugh that rang out in the tiny low-raftered room. She was the character actress whom they had met at the Academy. Stout and friendly, she mothered the whole company. Billy, the little assistant stage manager, stammered and stuttered and dropped things in well-meaning confusion, always trying to be helpful and not quite bringing it off. The scenic artist, Terry, was draped as lazily as usual over the table. But despite the lackadaisical manner he affected, and the fact that one never saw him actually working, the sets which he turned out were very often magnificent. Mr Edwin Chubb’s white locks added a touch of distinction to the company, and he was never at a loss for some anecdote from his long experience of the theatre with which to amuse them or to prove a point.

The town of Fenchester had grown to love this odd collection of personalities that formed the company of the Blue Door Theatre, especially as the nucleus were local born and bred. But they were interested, too, in the new faces that came and went, when extra artistes had to be called in for shows with large casts. These were usually people who had been at the British Actors’ Guild Academy with the Blue Doors.

Just as they were putting their coats on to return to the theatre, a telegram boy stepped inside the door of the café. ‘You from the theatre?’ he inquired.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there’s this for you…’ He handed the telegram to Nigel.

Be seeing you tonight. Hope you’ve got a juicy part for me. Maddy, it read.

‘Oh, good,’ cried Nigel, and read it aloud. Maddy, Sandra’s sister, was the youngest member of the company, and was still in the junior school of the Academy, and could only act at Fenchester during the holidays.

‘Yes,’ said Sandra, ‘I meant to tell you we’re expecting her home tonight.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no part for her in this murder thing,’ said Nigel, ‘but she can help Billy with the noises off.’

‘She’ll love doing thunder and rain,’ said Sandra.

‘Yeth, I could do with thome help,’ said Billy, ‘even if it’s only Maddy, I mean—er—’

Nigel laughed. ‘Yes. We know what you mean. You’ll have to keep an eye on her. But perhaps she won’t be so wild, now that she’s had to look after herself for a whole term at the Academy.’

By lunch-time it was colder than ever, and their noses were tinged with pink as they hurried home. In the afternoon they rehearsed with their coats on, and Bulldog had a long session with the stove, stoking it up ready for the evening performance of The Rivals. ‘I declare this thing is human,’ he announced. ‘Whenever it’s preparing to be really infuriating, it makes horrid little chortling noises.’

As it was Thursday night, and the fifth time they had performed The Rivals, there were no worries as to the evening’s show, and they were able to have large and leisurely high teas. Conveniently, the new members of the Blue Doors had managed to find digs in the road where the others lived, so they were able to go to and from the theatre in a noisy laughing arguing gang.

Just before time for the curtain, Maddy arrived. There was a violent banging on the little stage door at the back of the building, and when they opened it, there she was, as plump and untidy and grinning as ever.

‘Hallo, you stooges!’ she cried. ‘I’m back. And am I glad!’ She was surrounded by numerous pieces of luggage, including a parcel done up in newspaper that was beginning to split open, displaying a hot-water bottle and a rather grubby pair of tights.

‘Let me in—quickly…’ She dragged all her cases in after her, and made a quick tour of the dressing-rooms and the stage, greeting everyone. Then she had a peep through the curtains to survey the audience who were coming in by this time. Nigel hastily dragged her back.

‘That we do not allow,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s the most amateur thing in the world to see a bulge appear in the tabs, and an eye glued to the gap.’

‘Sorry,’ Maddy apologized sunnily. ‘I can’t get used to the idea of us being so fiercely professional.’

‘Clear stage, please,’ yelled Ali, as he did a last minute tour of inspection to see that the furniture and properties were in their right places.

Maddy hurried round to the front of the theatre to watch the show. Mr Chubb greeted her by intoning, ‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit—’

‘Hail to thee, too,’ replied Maddy. ‘Can I have a comp., please?’

Mr Chubb frowned. ‘On what grounds, may I ask, do you wish for a complimentary seat?’

Maddy giggled. ‘Well, I’m in the business, too.’ Laughing, he gave her a ticket for the front row of the stalls. Throughout the show she kept her ears skinned for remarks from the audience. And all that she heard was very cheering.

‘Oh, I come every other Thursday night. Have my seat booked regular…’

‘Yes, I wouldn’t miss a show for anything…’

‘Good, this time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, they always are. Clever, you know, aren’t they?’

Maddy sat glowing inwardly with pride, but outwardly inclined to shiver, for the theatre could not be called warm by any stretch of imagination. Bulldog’s stove made quite a lot of busy crackling noises, especially during the quieter scenes, but did not throw out a lot of heat. Several people in the audience recognized Maddy and came and chatted to her in the interval, and she had a delicious feeling of being back where she belonged and of being appreciated. When the last scene of the Restoration comedy had been brought to a graceful close, and the cast had taken their bows, Maddy went round again, and sat in the girls’ dressing-room, chattering sixteen to the dozen and getting in everyone’s way.

‘… And then I came top in fencing, because everyone else was so bad, but, on the other hand, I came bottom for ballet—’

‘Maddy, dear, you’re standing on the hem of my dress. Do you mind?’

‘Sorry—because I’m always fooling about at the back of the class, you see—’

‘Maddy, can I have that chair? I want to get my make-up off.’

‘Yes, of course—and, you see, Madame is awfully hot on that sort of thing, and—’

‘Wouldn’t you like to go and help Ali set the stage for tomorrow’s rehearsal, dear?’ said a tactful Sandra eventually.

‘Goodness, it’s like having a tame whirlwind in the dressing-room,’ said Lynette when Maddy had gone. But it gave them all a nice sense of completeness to have her back again.

‘Christmas should be fun,’ said Vicky, for no reason whatsoever.

The next morning at coffee-time they discussed their Christmas plans, and decided to do ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ and to write the script themselves.

‘It will save us paying author’s fees,’ said Nigel. ‘I think it’s an unusual choice, too. Maddy can play Goldilocks, and have her hair out of pigtails, in nice fat ringlets.’

Maddy exclaimed in horror, ‘Preserve me! I’d much rather play the smallest bear.’ She squeaked sadly, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’ making the waitress nearly drop the coffee she was placing on the table.

‘No, you’ll have to play Goldilocks, and Billy can be the little bear.’

Billy blushed with pleasure. Usually he wasn’t allowed to act because of his stutter and lisp.

‘Myrtle can be the medium size bear, and Nigel the big bear,’ they planned, and then began to try to think of jokes and songs for the script.

‘And we can have half a dozen of your little Academy friends down to play fairies or robins or something,’ Nigel said to Maddy. ‘You must give me the names of some who can dance. We’ll just pay their expenses, and they can do it for the sake of getting experience. We can give them a few shillings pocket-money if you like.’

Mr Chubb, always with an eye to business, said to Nigel, ‘You know, dear boy, it’s going to be an expense hiring the skins for the bears.’

‘Oh, we needn’t hire,’ cried Sandra. ‘If we can buy masks I can run up the rest of the bears on the machine.’

‘Poor bears!’ laughed Maddy. ‘Oh, I’m getting terribly excited about it.’ She stirred her coffee with such abandon that it splashed and made the table-cloth even dirtier.

‘Well, we’ve still got this murder thing to get on before we can start rehearsing the panto,’ said Nigel, ‘but we must write as much of it as we can this week and next, so everyone set to and try to get ideas.’

All that week they went round scribbling on pieces of paper and backs of envelopes and reading out verses and gags to each other, saying, ‘Do you think that’s funny? No, perhaps not…’

And it got colder and colder. On the first night of Murder in Mid-Channel it started to snow. Just at the time when people should have been setting out for the show, it began… first of all a few harmless little snow-flakes… then more and more, until the sky was full of them, busily whirling down, to coat the streets and the buildings of Fenchester, and make its population firmly determined to stay away from the theatre that night.

Mr Chubb, sitting freezing in the box-office, counted the people going in, and it didn’t take long. In his moth-eaten astrakhan-collared overcoat, and wrapped in a travelling rug, he counted the takings, the smallest by far that they had ever had. He clucked his tongue, and looked at the booking plan for the week. It was sparse in the extreme.

Going home that night after the show, remembering the thin applause of the few people in the house, and the hollow echoing of their voices in the half-empty theatre, the Blue Doors were more depressed than they had ever been since the theatre opened. Up till now, snow had been the signal for great rejoicing—for the bringing out of toboggans and greasing of skates. But now all that sort of thing seemed a very long way behind, and the snow was a danger and a menace to them.

‘It won’t be much,’ said Bulldog without conviction. ‘Look, it’s slacking off a bit now. It’ll all be gone by tomorrow.’ But the flakes continued to fall, daintily, yet relentlessly. Maddy threw a snow-ball rather guiltily, and everyone looked at her as though she had committed a crime.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I wanted to relieve my feelings.’

‘If your feelings need any relief tomorrow morning,’ Bulldog said, ‘come down to the theatre early and help me to shovel some coal under cover out of the yard. It’ll be hopelessly wet.’

Next morning, directly after breakfast, Maddy, in a balaclava helmet, wellingtons and a sleighing suit, made her way to the theatre through the deep crisp snow. It was really rather lovely, she had to admit, the old town covered in a white garment, but would they get any audience that night? Every morning during the next couple of snowy weeks she was down at the theatre early, helping Bulldog with the stove and madly shovelling coal. Until one morning, after the opening of Murder in Mid-Channel, he met her at the door of the theatre looking a little strange. His face was so pale that the freckles on it stood out sharply.

‘Oh, Maddy,’ he said weakly, ‘the stove’s gone wrong.’

2

COLD COMFORT

All the morning they wrestled with the stove. Rehearsal had to go by the board. It was more important that they should have a reasonably warm theatre for the evening performance. Clouds of black smoke filled the hall, and there were terrifying roarings and gurglings from the stove, but no heat whatsoever. Nigel dashed out to try to get a workman to come and look at it, but it was impossible.

‘What on earth shall we do?’ said Sandra. ‘There’s no hearth, even, where we could make a fire—nothing.’

Nigel said firmly, ‘We’ll all have to bring electric fires from home and plug them into the lights. We’ve got two that I can bring. What about you?’ he asked the Darwins.

‘One, I think,’ said Jeremy.

‘No,’ contradicted Lyn. ‘It’s fused.’

‘We’ve got one,’ said Sandra, ‘but it doesn’t throw out much heat.’

‘Well, they’ll have to do for tonight,’ said Nigel, ‘and tomorrow we must get the stove mended.’

‘Now for goodness sake let’s start rehearsing this awful pantomime,’ said Lyn. ‘All the fairies and robins and things are arriving tonight, aren’t they, Maddy? So we must have some sort of idea of the show.’

‘Yes,’ said Maddy. ‘Three of them are coming tonight, and three tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh, dear, and I haven’t worked out their dances at all,’ groaned Vicky.

‘Never mind,’ comforted Maddy, ‘just tell them to flit.’

It was very difficult to be bright and debonair in the pantomime tradition on that ice-cold stage, wearing so many clothes that they looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They had introduced a prince and Goldilocks’ elder sister into the original story and these were played by Vicky and by Sandra. Lyn and Bulldog played Goldilocks’ mother and father, and Jeremy was the Demon King, who spoke the Prologue and Epilogue. Altogether it was an amusing mixture of the traditional and the topical. But all the time they rehearsed, they were wondering what it would be like playing in flimsy clothes in the ever-lowering temperature. Already they had got colds in various stages, and lines were somewhat muffled with cough sweets, and top notes had to be taken as sung.

During the afternoon rehearsal Mr Chubb poked his nose round the door and called out, ‘You’d better be good this evening. Mrs Potter-Smith has just rung up and booked three seats.’ They groaned expressively.

‘Is that woman still alive?’ demanded Maddy.

‘Very much so,’ Jeremy told her. ‘She wrote to the papers when we did On the Spot complaining that a play all about gangsters “wasn’t healthy”.’

‘Give me a gangster any day, rather than that old hag.’

‘She would be coming tonight! Not only is it a murder play, and she’ll be sure to take exception to that, but we haven’t got any proper heating. Oh, confound the woman—Come on, let’s go and have tea.’

As they trudged home, Lyn said despondently, ‘Why on earth do we do it? In any other job we’d have finished for the day by this time, and could sit in front of fires and eat our evening meal at a reasonable hour—’

‘Well, why do we do it?’ demanded Nigel. ‘If you don’t like it, I should give it up. There are a dozen attractive and capable girls that I can think of this moment who would be willing to step into your shoes.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ laughed Lyn. ‘I was only having a nice grumble.’

The extra electric fires were duly plugged in that evening, and as soon as the footlights were switched on five minutes before the curtain should have gone up, the whole system fused, the load being too heavy. There was total darkness for about ten minutes, while Bulldog and Ali stumbled about trying to put things to rights, and the audience twittered nervously. Above the twittering came Mrs Potter-Smith’s unmistakeable voice, ‘Oh, dear… this darkness… so trying… and the cold… what a pity they can’t run things more efficiently. But there, of course, the poor dears… we can’t expect much, can we… so young… Oh, it’s so cold…’

At last the lights were put right and the curtain was able to go up. The play was a very ordinary thriller, the sort of thing they sometimes threw in to try to appeal to popular taste. Most of the audience loved it, and in the cheaper seats they ‘Oohed’ and ‘Ahhed’ at the exciting bits, but Mrs Potter-Smith’s disapproval became more and more vocal as the cold attacked her toes and nose. Her offended cluckings and disapproving sniffs punctuated the whole performance. Occasionally, for good value, she threw in an audible shiver.

‘She needn’t think it’s any too warm on stage, either,’ said Vicky in the interval. The dressing-rooms were icy too, as the electric fires had been sacrificed for the auditorium.

‘Act Two, please,’ shouted Ali.

‘Yes,’ said Nigel, ‘and let’s speed it up so that we can get home and get warm.’ The rest of the play moved so quickly that it was rather like an early film being projected too quickly. People died off at an incredible rate and at last the stage was littered with corpses, the intrepid detective, played by Nigel, had discovered the murderer, and the curtain came down.

‘Gosh!’ cried Maddy, ‘my arm aches from turning the handle of that wind machine. It didn’t make me any warmer though.’

From the imitation wind and rain of the theatre, the audience turned out into the only too real blizzard that was blowing outside.

Just as the company were preparing to lock up the theatre for the night, Mr Chubb appeared, shepherding three small and shivering girls.

‘Look what I’ve found,’ he said. ‘Three snow-fairies…’ They looked a pathetic sight, with snow caked all round their faces and on their shoulders and shoes. They didn’t look at all happy. In fact, the lower lip of the smallest of them was trembling slightly. Maddy rushed to greet them excitedly.

‘Hallo, Buster! Hallo, Snooks!’ she cried, and they brightened up immediately. While they were being introduced, Vicky suddenly clapped her hands together loudly.

‘Yes, of course…’ she cried. Everyone looked at her, and she hastened to explain. ‘I’ve been absolutely stuck for what sort of dances to have in the pantomime, but—obviously—we must have a snow-flake ballet. Jeremy, quickly, some snow-flake music!’

‘Oh, heavens,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘Aren’t we ever going home?’ But he sat down at the piano and improvised some light, dancing, flake-ish music, and Vicky started to dance in the half-lit theatre, making up the steps as she went along. The fairies watched, very impressed, then, as they picked up the idea, shed their sodden coats and scarves and joined in. Maddy was the next to try, galumphing happily round, completely out of time, and bumping into everyone else. Bulldog joined her, and the dancing became more and more eccentric. Then Ali joined in, doing an oriental version of the steps that Vicky was executing. Soon they were all dancing round and round the auditorium, up on to the stage and down again. Mr Chubb was doing a stately pas seul in the foyer. At last, Jeremy’s fingers gave out, and they all collapsed laughing.

‘I’m awfully glad I could come down here,’ said the skinny fairy Maddy had hailed as ‘Buster’.

Next day things became really bad. People rang up and cancelled bookings for not only that night but the rest of the week also.

‘Because I hear the theatre’s so cold,’ was the usual explanation.

‘And who have they heard it from?’ demanded Lyn. ‘That wretched Mrs Potter-Smith, of course. I’d like to wring her fat neck.’

‘I wonder,’ said Nigel, ‘whether we ought to close down until the weather improves—’

‘Impossible, dear boy,’ said Mr Chubb. ‘We must stay open and try to rake in every penny to cover overhead expenses.’

‘This will have to be the cheapest pantomime ever put on,’ said Nigel. ‘We can’t afford to hire a thing. Thank heavens there aren’t any author’s fees. We’ll have to set about repairing old scenery like mad. I hoped for some new pieces—but that’s out of the question now.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Chubb, then cheering up slightly added, ‘The panto will bring the crowd in. People will see a show at Christmas, however cold it is. But if only we could get the stove mended—’

Bulldog tore his hair. ‘If anyone else mentions the word “stove” I shall start climbing the walls. I’ve been to everyone I can think of to get it mended, and it’s absolutely hopeless for at least a week.’

And by the time the stove was mended the damage was done. Fenchester was determined to stay away as long as the cold weather lasted. Instead of going to the chilly theatre they went to the centrally heated cinemas. Mrs Potter-Smith had certainly done her work well. She had spread word of the iciness of the theatre and the poorness of the show all round the Ladies’ Institute, the tea shops and sewing parties. And it was from these sources that most of their audiences came.

The Wednesday matinée had to be cancelled as only three people turned up. Despondently the Blue Doors trudged through the slushy snow and spent the afternoon in the cinema.

‘Though why we should swell their profits, I don’t know,’ grumbled Nigel. The film was all about a stock company in America who nearly went broke and then some dear old gentleman died and left them a lot of money, and also they got the opportunity to do a show on Broadway, which was an instantaneous success. The Blue Doors came out of the cinema laughing hollowly. That evening they played to fifteen who were all in the cheaper seats, and fourteen of them had severe colds.

And so it went on, with the snow and Mrs Potter-Smith both doing their worst. And then, although the snow stayed, Mrs Potter-Smith disappeared. She was not at the meetings of the Ladies’ Institute nor the sewing parties. She did not sit in Bonner’s devouring sticky cakes at eleven o’clock and tea-time. She did not even go to change one ‘nice romantic novel’ for another at the lending library. And then the awful news got round. Mrs Potter-Smith was ill. She had got pneumonia. She was in hospital. What is more, she had contracted pneumonia the night she visited the Blue Door Theatre. When the company heard it, they stood and looked at each other, horrified.

‘That,’ said Jeremy, ‘has torn it.’

‘Oh, what foul luck,’ lamented Nigel. ‘I’m sorry the old monster has got pneumonia, but why—why, did she catch it here?’

‘If she did!’ said Maddy sagely. ‘She might just as well have caught it at that display of Greek dancing which she and some of her pals gave the other night. Judging by the pictures in the papers they were galumphing about wearing next to nothing.’

‘What a horrible thought,’ shuddered Jeremy. ‘Still, even if she did catch it there, we can’t prove it. And the one or two people who might have braved it and come to the theatre will now obviously stay away.’

By the Monday of the second week of Murder in Mid-Channel the stove was mended and burning merrily, throwing out a fine heat to all corners of the theatre, and nearly roasting those who were seated near it. And the audience consisted merely of a handful of the Blue Doors’ parents and friends, who had all gallantly insisted on paying for their seats.

‘It’s heart-breaking!’ cried Lyn. ‘Don’t the Fenchester people want a theatre?’

‘Evidently not in this weather,’ said Sandra, ‘and one hardly blames them.’

‘Let’s—let’s put up a notice outside the theatre saying, “It’s warm in here”,’ suggested Maddy.

‘No-one would believe us. They’d believe Mrs Potter-Smith,’ said Vicky gloomily.

‘It would come just now, when we’ve got six extra to pay next week.’

In lieu of some of their meagre pay, the six extra fairies were being lodged free by the parents of the Blue Doors.

‘It’s awfully sweet of our mothers to do it, you know,’ said Nigel. ‘We couldn’t have afforded any more in the way of salaries. I’m afraid there won’t be any for us seven this week, or for some time to come.’

‘We just must make a success of the pantomime,’ was the theme on everybody’s lips. It was shaping quite well now. The dances were all planned out, and the lines of the dialogue and the songs nearly learned. Maddy was a dumpy and sensible Goldilocks, and the antics of the three bears would be sure to appeal to children.

It was Maddy who had the best publicity idea concerning the pantomime. One day she came in to rehearsal saying, ‘I’ve got hold of something that may be useful for the panto. Mr Small-good and Whittlecock is bringing it down in a few minutes.’

Mr Smallgood (or was he Mr Whittlecock?) was the owner of an antique shop bearing those two names that stood at the corner of Pleasant Street. Maddy had often bullied him into lending them things for previous shows. Soon he appeared, bowed under an enormous furry burden. It was a large stuffed brown bear.

‘See!’ cried Maddy delightedly. ‘We can stand him outside the theatre with a notice on him saying, “Come and see me in my starring role”, or something like that.’ They did so. Bruin stood bravely outside the theatre in the snow, inviting people to come and book for the pantomime. He proved a great favourite with children, many of whom dragged their parents in to the box-office to get seats for Christmas week.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mr Chubb reassured the inquiring mothers, ‘we’re all fitted up for this sort of weather now. Snug as anything with a new heating system.’ And, suppressing a shiver, he would hand over the tickets.

One evening after the show Nigel called an emergency meeting of the seven original Blue Doors and Mr Chubb. ‘We must discuss economy,’ he said. ‘How can we save money, apart from not having any salaries ourselves?’

‘And making our own costumes,’ added Sandra, whose fingers were sore with sewing.

‘We could do all classical plays for a bit,’ suggested Lyn, ‘and save royalties.’

Maddy giggled. ‘We’ll have old Bill Shakespeare turning in his grave and demanding author’s fees.’

‘Yes, that would be one thing,’ agreed Nigel, ignoring the interruption. ‘But then that would mean difficult historical costumes.’

‘We’ll cope,’ sighed Sandra. ‘We always used to when we were amateurs—never hired a thing, and I’m sure the costumes weren’t worse than hired stuff.’

‘Well, what else is there?’ demanded Nigel.

‘What about letting the theatre occasionally for amateur shows,’ suggested Bulldog.

‘No, they mostly go to the Ladies’ Institute Hall. They don’t have to pay for that.’ They racked their brains in silence as they sat in conclave in the girls’ dressing-room. Then there came a tap at the door. It was Buster, the smallest fairy.

She blushed and faltered and said, ‘Well, we couldn’t help knowing, me and the other fairies, that is, that the theatre is hard up. Maddy told us. We haven’t been listening. So we thought we’d like to say that we don’t want to take our pocket-money—’

She was drowned by the reactions of the Blue Doors. Vicky burst into tears, Maddy thumped her on the back, Sandra and Nigel said, ‘But of course you must be paid,’ and Jeremy and Bulldog roared with laughter; and when she had bolted out of the room again Lyn said slowly, ‘Funny how something always turns up to show that life is worth living…’

3

SNOW-FLAKE BALLET

‘ONE—TWO—THREE, one—two—three,’ chanted Vicky. ‘Buster, your knees are bent. Snooks, smile, please. Eyes and teeth—that’s right.’ The snow-flake fairies twirled and arabesqued round the tiny stage. ‘They’re going to be the best bit in the show,’ Vicky whispered to Lyn, who was sitting beside her in the stalls.

‘I think you’ve trained them awfully well,’ said Lyn, ‘and they’ll take up a nice lot of time. The show is very short, you know. Our ingenuity doesn’t stretch very far.’

‘That’s lovely, dears,’ said Vicky, when they had finished. ‘Thanks, Jeremy. That accompaniment is fine now.’

It was only a few days to the opening of the pantomime, and the way that the bookings were piling up gave fresh enthusiasm to their rehearsals. The weather had settled down into a hard crisp frost, with the snow still on the ground. It was easier to get about and the cold did not seem so penetrating. They had sent out posters and handbills to all the villages in the surrounding district, hoping that the country people would be lured to Fenchester by the magic word ‘pantomime’, and it seemed that their efforts were to be rewarded.