Party Shoes, page 17
Mrs Andrews looked from Selina to Sally.
‘Do you mean to say that Phoebe’s scene isn’t going to happen? You know the letter was written last night about the costumes.’
Selina decided that it was best to break the news in one horrid sweep.
‘They’ll be wanted all right, only there’ll be about ninety other dresses wanted as well. All sorts of people. It isn’t fixed yet, but Philip said jugglers, tumblers, ladies-in-waiting on the May Queen, and children who dance round a maypole.’
Mrs Andrews felt quite weak in the knees at this bad news. She sat down abruptly on the bed and looked at the one person who might sympathize and understand.
‘Pity me, Mrs Mawser. My husband says that half the cast will make their own clothes, but I know they won’t. People simply haven’t got the bits put away to make clothes out of. We’re going to dress all Sally’s dancers in butter muslin, that will have to be dyed what Sally calls laburnum yellow, and I expect it will end in my having to do the dyeing. My husband says that all the mothers will make their own children’s clothes, but I have a suspicion they won’t. There was just one scene in this pageant that was fixed and nothing wanted doing about it, and that was Phoebe’s. Four people taking part and all the dresses to be hired. Now you hear the news and you see how it’s broken to me. Phoebe’s to be a May Queen, which will mean white from head to foot, and we shall want about ninety other dresses as well. And when I get home and tell my husband the bad news, all he’ll say is, “Oh, they’ll make the dresses themselves.”’
Mrs Mawser hated acting in the pageant. She had agreed to be part of the crowd in Christopher’s scene, but she was only taking part because she felt it to be her duty. She thought it very unbecoming behaviour on her part to raise her voice and shout at Miss Lipscombe and throw mud, ‘Not,’ as she often said to Partridge, ‘that I ever cared for the woman, but there is a long distance between not caring for somebody and throwing mud at them.’ On the other hand, she approved of the pageant. She did not like to think of the Day family quietly slipping away from the Abbey when their family had owned it for so long. If go they must (and she supposed Colonel Day knew what he was talking about when he said he must sell the place, gentlemen always understood figures) then they should go with style. It was difficult to go in style when the county could not pay farewell visits because of petrol rationing. The next best thing was to have a kind of public farewell. The pageant would be just that. Mrs Mawser saw in Mrs Andrews’s anxiety about the clothes a way in which she could help the family to leave the Abbey in style with none of that nasty acting.
‘If Mr Philip could spare me from the acting I could help over the clothes, madam.’
Mrs Day looked at Mrs Andrews.
‘There’s an offer for you. You two had better become joint wardrobe mistresses. Mawser’s no end of a dab at cutting out, aren’t you, Mawser?’
Mrs Mawser saw the Abbey being used as it should be used. She looked at Mrs Day.
‘We could have working parties. Wonderful what a lot of work can be got through at working parties.’
Mrs Andrews felt as if a load were tumbling off her back. With real affection and gratitude she shifted the evening dresses to one arm and held out her other hand to Mrs Mawser.
‘You are a dear. I feel a different person. It’s not that I don’t want to do everything I can to help but I’ve got such an impractical family. I’ll have a talk to Mr Philip and get him to fix once and for all what is going to be worn, and I’ll get him to decide who can be asked to hire their clothes and who can’t. Then we shall know what’s got to be made and we’ll see if it’s possible to raise the stuff to do it.’
Mrs Mawser was, for her, quite excited.
‘Now, Miss Sally, you get me the yellow dye tomorrow and tell the boys to bring me up the butter muslin, and I’ll dye the stuff for your dancers. I can do it in the old copper; I’ll have the water boiling quite early.’
Philip was in to tea. He was delighted to hear that Mrs Mawser would act as co-wardrobe mistress with Mrs Andrews, and agreed cheerfully to let her off acting in Christopher’s scene.
‘She was no good anyway. She looked like a rather superior Siamese cat at a meeting of common tabbies.’
Mrs Andrews sat in a chair beside Philip.
‘Philip, can you give me half an hour after tea? I want to get the question of these dresses settled once and for all.’
‘I can give you as long as you like, but we won’t get them fixed once and for all today.’
Mrs Andrews sighed.
‘What else are you changing? For goodness’ sake make up your mind before I cut out Augustus’s and Benjamin’s tunics.’
‘It’s not changes.’ He looked at Selina. ‘I’ll have to meet all the family in committee. It’s time. I can’t think how I was such a fool as not to time the scenes earlier. Do you know, with everything that we can put in, the pageant as it is won’t play for much more than an hour.’
Selina asked:
‘How long ought it to be?’
‘Two hours at the least.’
Selina stared at him, made quite speechless with horror. At last she said:
‘Do you mean that we’ve got to have exactly twice as much pageant as we’ve got now?’
He nodded.
‘I worked out John’s scene. There’s about four minutes of monks chanting at the beginning, one minute’s talking, about five minutes’ horseplay, another minute’s talking, and then another four of chanting by the monks at the end. And, mind you, that’s stretching it. There’s going to be a lot more chanting than most people’ll want to hear.’
Sally said:
‘Have you counted the extra dances from the Ballet School at Linkwell in my scene?’
‘I’ve allowed for them roughly, and for the prologue and epilogue and bits in between. With all the doings we’re putting into Phoebe’s scene I dare say we shan’t need to double the show. I reckon two long scenes will about fill the bill.’
Mrs Andrews murmured, ‘Two long scenes.’
Philip turned to her, smiling.
‘One of them at any rate won’t need dresses. I think we should bring this pageant right up to date. We can have a scene during the war. The coming of the evacuees, and that time when the Americans took the Abbey.’
‘Canadians had it, too,’ Mrs Day reminded him.
Philip nodded.
‘I know, but we couldn’t raise any Canadians, there are none round here now, but we can use the Americans. It would make a fine finish. A whole lot of jeeps and stuff rushing on to the stage.’
The Colonel came in and heard what Philip said.
‘Never sell the place if you have jeeps rushin’ all over my grass.’
Mrs Andrews did not want Philip’s mind distracted from clothes.
‘I think it’s a splendid idea. All they’ll need to wear is their own uniforms; what could be better? What are you going to do for the other scene?’
Philip shook his head.
‘I wish I knew; that’s why I want a meeting of your offspring. One of them might have a good idea. And that’s not my only headache. I’ve got Partridge, Mrs Miggs, and Miss Lipscombe on my hands. They were part of Phoebe’s scene, and now I’ve altered it I’ve got to write a scene for them. Goodness knows what they are going to talk about.’
The Colonel helped himself to a bit of cake.
‘Partridge won’t care if you let him off.’
Philip got up to hand some food to Mrs Andrews.
‘Too right, but Miss Lipscombe and Mrs Miggs will.’
Mrs Andrews took a bun from the plate Philip handed her.
‘Well, do have your meeting to decide what the extra scene is soon, Philip. It’s less than seven weeks to this pageant and, so far as I know, none of the actors have been told yet that they have got to make their own clothes.’
Philip gaped at her.
‘Make their own clothes! Who said so?’
‘My husband. You see, originally he offered to pay for the hire, but now, of course, it’s such a big affair he can’t afford it. He says that he’ll hire a few, and anyone who can afford to hire their own should be asked to do so. The rest will have to make their own clothes. Well, I know that they haven’t got the time and they haven’t got the material, and it’ll end in Mrs Mawser and myself doing most of it, but out of what?’
Philip put the buns back on the table. He ran his hand through his hair and it stood bolt upright.
‘You can’t make all the clothes. The hire cost should be deducted from the takings.’
‘I should think it would use all the takings to hire them. We want to hand over a decent cheque to the Air Force Benevolent.’
Philip clicked his fingers.
‘I know. You know there’s this catch about the dress rehearsal. Thursday’s early closing day and it’s the only day that half the cast can get off. A lot of the people working round here, including your husband, can’t be sure of making a dress rehearsal because it won’t be on a Thursday. All the farmers taking part have been saying that they can’t give two afternoons running. I’ve planned we have the dress rehearsal on Thursday afternoon and the real performance about five o’clock. Now why don’t we charge for the dress rehearsal.’
The Colonel said:
‘That ought to fit in fine. When I asked about the trains and buses to bring the audience in I didn’t specify time.’
Selina thought of the people who were going to pay to see the dress rehearsal.
‘I shouldn’t think they ought to pay much to see the dress rehearsal. It’s bound to be the most awful muddle.’
Philip threw her a comforting glance.
‘We’ll have a rehearsal or two in the clothes for the principals and the children and anyone who can turn up. We’ll charge less for the dress rehearsal than we do for the real performance, of course, but we’ll see that we get a full house for it, and the money taken will pay for the hire of the clothes.’
‘Oh, Philip dear,’ said Mrs Andrews, ‘how simply splendid, but will you please walk back with us after tea and explain all this to my husband.’
There was not a rehearsal that evening so Philip came back with the family. First they had a family committee. It seemed funny having a grown-up there. John said:
‘I usually sit here and run the thing, but this time, as you’ve got all the talking to do, would you?’
Philip was never a person to waste much time. He sat down and explained his troubles. He told them about the paid-for dress rehearsal. Then he explained about his scheme for putting in the evacuees and the Americans. ‘But after that I’m stuck. We need one other good scene with plenty of action and dancing and stuff, to take at least twenty minutes.’
‘Where did you want it to go?’ John asked. ‘I mean, between whose scenes?’
Philip took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
‘Your scene’s the thirteenth century. Phoebe’s the beginning of the sixteenth century. Sally’s the very end of the sixteenth, Christopher’s the seventeenth. It looks as though we want one between John’s and Phoebe’s. Or a slice of Victorian England.’
Phoebe said:
‘Oh, do let’s do Queen Victoria when she was a little girl and said “I will be good.”’
Philip shook his head.
‘Much too small a scene for a pageant. And none of you are the right size for Queen Victoria at that age. Now, rack your brains, all of you. Think of something intelligent.’
Christopher was sprawling across the table. Now he looked up.
‘We want something that happened to this village. Did anything ever?’
Philip stiffened, so they knew he had an idea.
‘I wonder if we could do anything with the relief of Mafeking. Must have been very like VE day. Bonfires, bells ringing, dancing and all of it.’
‘How would they hear the news?’ John asked.
Philip was gazing into space as if he could see Little Muchover in 1900.
‘I should think it would come by messenger. A little place like this wouldn’t have heard it very quickly. I think we might have a town crier. We could have a record of bells and our old bell-ringers trundling across to go and ring the church bells. Then all the village pouring out and bustle and excitement. We might produce a bit of a comic band from somewhere, and finish up with a good dance. Lancers, polkas and all that kind of stuff.’
‘I should think,’ said Christopher, ‘we could find lots of people who remember that night. There are plenty of very old people in the village.’
‘Well,’ said Philip, ‘you go and ask them, but if they tell you that nothing happened at all, or that it rained that day so they didn’t do anything, don’t tell me about it, because in the Little Muchover in our pageant they rang the bells, lit the bonfires, and danced. Now, has anybody got any objections?’
‘Who’s going to be the chief person in the scene?’ Phoebe asked.
‘I don’t know that we need a chief person. There wouldn’t have been one, really. It’s just all the village turning out.’
‘Well, as long as there’s none I don’t mind, but I don’t think it would be fair if somebody had two big parts. When we first planned the pageant we only had one scene each.’
‘Don’t listen to her, Philip,’ John said. ‘I don’t mind if somebody else has two scenes. Nor does anybody else.’
‘Well, I don’t think we shall want anybody in that scene, but I tell you what we do want somebody for, that’s a funny fellow to be Jack-in-the-Green in Phoebe’s scene.’
Christopher looked up hopefully, for he was enjoying being funny in his own scene. Before he could speak Sally said:
‘I was thinking about Alfie. We don’t need him now for buns because, now it’s the holidays, if we are asking people to tea we can fetch them ourselves.’ She turned to Philip. ‘I think Alfie might be Jack-in-the-Green. He’s very good in Christopher’s scene. He says “blasted she-goat” louder than anybody else.’
Philip looked at John, who nodded.
‘He’d be very good, and I think he ought to have a part.’
Phoebe broke in:
‘He took a lot of trouble teaching Mrs Miggs her poetry, which she isn’t going to say.’
Philip hurried away from that subject.
‘Will one of you see Alfie? I suppose you’d better, Selina.’ Philip glanced down at his notes. ‘Who shall we get for a town crier? Do you know anybody who would do for that?’
Augustus and Benjamin did not seem to have been paying much attention to the committee. Benjamin had hummed all the time, and Augustus was playing with a puzzle where he had to get a piece of quicksilver broken into seven bits, and each of the bits had to form a button on a man’s coat. Now he looked up.
‘I think Mr Bins would make a very good town crier.’
All the family looked admiringly at Augustus.
John said:
‘He’s quite right.’
Sally said:
‘Mr Bins would be just perfect.’
Christopher said:
‘You aren’t such a fool as you look, Augustus.’
Selina, to save time, said:
‘I’ll go and see Mr Bins.’
‘It’s very suitable,’ said Sally, ‘that Mr Bins should have a part. After all, he brought the parcel to Selina, and if there hadn’t been that parcel there wouldn’t have been a pageant.’
Philip was not attending. He was writing a list of possible characters for the Victorian scene.
‘I believe that’s all unless anyone has got anything else they want to say. I shall need all of you in that scene, of course.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Do you think your father’s nearly through with his surgery? I want to have that conference about hiring clothes.’
17. Sally at Linkwell
SALLY WAS so excited on the morning of her first ballet rehearsal at Linkwell that she felt sick and could not eat any breakfast. She had not to be at the school until ten-thirty, but she drove all the family mad, insisting that they were making her late.
‘Hurry up, Benjamin. Dad, must I wait until Benjamin’s finished? I shall miss my bus. Mum, don’t encourage Augustus, he can’t want another slice of bread. Phoebe, you are a guzzler.’
Neither her father nor her mother treated her complaints at all seriously. Dr Andrews said:
‘My dear child, it’s not yet half past eight. If you catch the bus at nine-thirty you’ll still be early for your rehearsal.’
Mrs Andrews said:
‘You can’t catch a bus until nine-thirty, Sally dear. A dancing rehearsal at ten-thirty is no excuse for getting you out of your share of the housework.’
Phoebe, Augustus, and Benjamin told Sally what they thought of her. Phoebe said:
‘If you’re silly enough not to eat your breakfast because of a stupid old dancing class, that’s no reason to call me a guzzler.’
Augustus said:
‘I do want another piece of bread. I shouldn’t wonder if I had five more pieces.’
Benjamin said, with earnest reproach:
‘My dear, nobody likes being hurried when they’re eating.’
Sally was appalled at the suggestion that the nine-thirty bus would do.
‘It’s the most dreadful risk, Mum.’
‘Why?’
‘If it’s full, I shan’t get there in time.’
‘If you go to the bus stop by nine fifteen,’ said Doctor Andrews, ‘you’ll be at the head of the queue and there certainly will be room.’
Since the holidays had started and the rehearsals had been taking place every day, Mrs Andrews had stretched the invitations to tea. They might now have five people to tea two afternoons, or ten a week, always provided they ate buns. Three of Christopher’s mummers were coming to tea that afternoon. Selina tried to help Sally.
‘Couldn’t Sally go in on the earlier bus and buy this afternoon’s buns? That’ll save Christopher going, and he could do Sally’s washing up and beds.’
Sally looked gratefully at Selina and hopefully at her mother. Mrs Andrews thought that a good idea.
