One day, in the fifth week of term, Rosalind rushed into the ‘Babies’ classroom crying, ‘What do you think? Glorious news—I’ve just seen Mrs Seymore, and she says that Mr Whitfield’s buying a television set—to go in the common room—it’s being installed tomorrow, and anyone will be able to watch it.’
‘How heavenly! Wizard!’ came glad cries from all those who had not sets at home.
‘Anyone will be able to watch—even us?’ asked Maddy suspiciously.
They were used to the ‘Babies’ being excluded from certain activities on the grounds that they were ‘not old enough’.
‘Well—Mrs Seymore said we could watch in the afternoons sometimes. I don’t know whether that means we can’t in the evenings.’
When the ‘Babies’ told him about the set Mr Manyweather was delighted to hear the news.
‘Now, don’t just sit in front of it like a lot of morons, letting it lap over you. You must watch from a professional point of view. Consider the technique of the acting—see who you think is good and who isn’t, and why.’
Every day as soon as lessons were over, the ‘Babies’ assembled in the common room and watched the children’s programme. Then Maddy and Zillah would fly back to Fitzherbert Street for their evening meal, and back again to the Academy, where there were always some seniors watching—generally a play they particularly wanted to see, or a programme in which a friend was appearing. Maddy and Zillah would creep into the darkened room and curl up on the floor, and stay there until it was so late that even Mrs Bosham’s conscience was uneasy about them. When their eyes were smarting and their backs aching, they would slip out very quietly, for they were still not quite sure that the juniors were allowed to watch after the children’s programme was over.
Drinking cocoa in Mrs Bosham’s basement, Maddy would tell her all that they had just seen, while Mrs Bosham interjected cries of ‘Well, I never’ and ‘She didn’t!’
And every evening the conversation finished on the same line.
‘It’s no good, I’ll have to get a telly on the never-never.’
The effect of Mr Manyweather’s television lessons on the acting of the Academy was most marked. At first the other instructors were distraught because in their classes all the students were underacting and using too little voice. ‘You’ll never fill a theatre with that voice,’ cried Mrs Seymore in despair. ‘Too small—it’s all too small,’ stormed Mr Whitfield, after the top class had done their first public performance of the term. The seniors who were in their last year had to put on a play every three weeks, to accustom them to the rate of work outside in the professional world.
Poor Mr Manyweather began to feel quite worried.
‘They’re all blaming me,’ he said to Maddy’s class, ‘because you can’t keep to two separate techniques. You’ve got to learn to be able to switch over. You mustn’t ruin your chances for the theatre just because you hope to act on television. It’s ridiculous.’
So Mr Manyweather would keep saying in his lessons, ‘Show me how you’d do it for the theatre,’ then, ‘and now, for television.’
He arrived one day carrying some parcels even bulkier than usual. These when unwrapped turned out to contain large, rough models of television cameras. ‘Mock-ups’ of cameras he called them.
These mock-ups were fixed on to the backs of chairs and pushed about the room, to give the students the feeling of playing to different cameras all the time. There was quite a lot of competition among the boys to be ‘cameramen’.
‘Ooh, I’ve got a lovely close-up of Maddy,’ Colin would cry, looking through the imitation lens. ‘She does look funny…’
This did a great deal to make them less conscious of the cameras.
‘It’s to give you a sense of television,’ Mr Manyweather was always telling them. ‘I want you to be conscious of the camera, but not camera-conscious, if you see what I mean. A good television actor knows exactly which camera’s taking him at any given moment, and how long the shot is. He knows he’s got to give more on the long shot than in the close-ups, but he never lets the viewer suspect for a moment that there’s even a camera in sight.’
The television mania swept the whole Academy. The ‘Babies’ even enjoyed the advertisement spots on commercial television, and played at acting them individually, but leaving out the name of the product for the others to guess. The seniors were allowed to plan whole television productions, with one of the students as producer, and Mr Manyweather watched them and criticised them as seriously as if they were the real thing.
Every week the two best pupils in the ‘Babies’ television class were taken to the studios to watch a rehearsal, and Mr Manyweather managed to arrange matters so that a different couple came top each week. Poor Zillah was still so nervous that she never got through a speech without drying, but one day he said to her, ‘Well, you know, that was so sincere—at least the bit you remembered was—and you looked so enchanting that I think the viewers might forgive the dries, so you’d better come on Saturday and bring Armand with you.’
Armand was a French boy, who spoke very little English; his father was in the diplomatic service, and had just been posted to London. Armand had no ambition to become an actor, but his parents thought that more attention would be paid to his speech at the Academy than at an ordinary school. He was hampered by his lack of English to such a degree that he lagged behind in all subjects except French, where, of course, his accent put everyone else to shame.
‘What with Zillah’s accent and Armand’s, they’ll wonder at the studios what the Academy’s coming to,’ Snooks giggled to Maddy.
‘We can’t all be Cockneys,’ Maddy crushed her as usual.
Zillah came back marvelling at the many wonders of the television studio, and as anxious as everyone else to do some acting on the small screen.
During the following week some free seats were sent to the Academy for a commercial television quiz programme, which was to be televised with a live audience from a theatre in South London. A certain number of tickets were allotted to each class, and Zillah and Maddy were both fortunate enough to be given one. Each ticket admitted two people to the show, but anyone under seventeen had to be accompanied by an adult.
‘Bags I Mrs Bosham,’ cried Maddy.
‘But—but then I shan’t have a grown-up,’ wailed Zillah.
‘Well,’ Maddy racked her brains, ‘there’s Mr Manyweather—or Mrs Seymore,’ she added doubtfully.
‘I could never ask them,’ cried Zillah.
‘Well then, ask one of the seniors who’s over seventeen,’ said Maddy.
‘Oh, I daren’t.’
‘I’ll find someone for you,’ promised Maddy, ‘even if I have to stop and ask a passer-by in the street.’
‘No, no,’ cried Zillah, terrified that Maddy might do as she threatened.
But in the end Snooks came to the rescue.
‘You can have my father,’ she offered largely. ‘Both my parents want to come, so he’ll be glad to share your ticket.’
Mrs Bosham, too, was thrilled with the idea. She couldn’t quite gather what it was they were going to do, but knew it was something to do with the ‘telly’, and that it would make an outing. She deliberated at length on which hat she should wear, until Maddy had to assure her that she wouldn’t necessarily be seen by the cameras.
‘Of course, they do sometimes show a few of the people in the audience,’ Maddy admitted. ‘But not very often.’
‘Still, there’s your friend’s Mum and Dad to think about,’ went on Mrs Bosham. ‘We don’t want to let them down, do we?’
Maddy was sure that Mrs Snooks would be horrified by Mrs Bosham’s hat, but she didn’t really care. It was so exciting to be going to a real television show, of a type so different from the one she had watched before.
They arranged to meet outside the theatre, and Maddy and Zillah and Mrs Bosham were there in good time.
When the Snooks family turned up Maddy thought that Mrs Snooks’s hat was just as ridiculous as Mrs Bosham’s, only obviously more expensive. They all jabbered excitedly and then made their way into the theatre, with a stream of other people.
It was a beautiful old theatre that had been a music hall until it had been bought by the commercial television company. Outside it was rather shabby, but inside it was very ornate and had been redecorated; the gilded and scrolled balconies gleamed, and the red plush seats had been newly upholstered.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ breathed Maddy.
‘Is this a theatre?’ asked Zillah. ‘I like it better than the cinemas.’
Of course everyone laughed at this, but it seemed terrible to think that Zillah’s first visit to a real theatre was to see a television show.
The television cameras were placed at various vantage points in the theatre, one of them being on a ramp running down the centre of the auditorium. ‘I do hope our seats aren’t directly behind the camera,’ said Mrs Snooks, ‘or we shan’t see anything.’
But they found themselves in quite good seats slightly to one side, so that, despite the camera, they could see the whole of the stage.
In the auditorium there were a lot of people from the Academy to wave to and this kept Maddy and Snooks busy until the orchestra struck up. The lights in the theatre were not dimmed at all, which seemed strange. Then the compère came in front of the stage curtains and told them that there was still some time to go before they would be on the air, and so he would tell them what was going to take place. He had a plug microphone on a long flex, so that he was able to walk down the steps from the stage and up and down the gangways of the auditorium.
‘Now, we’ll just have a little rehearsal with some test questions,’ he said. ‘And the first person to shout out the answer will receive a prize.’
The questions were very easy, and the prizes were quite small—but with each winner the compère exchanged a few words, and to some he said, ‘And would you like to come up on the stage and compete for the big prizes while we’re on the air?’
As the audience warmed up, the questions became a little more difficult. After the question, ‘What lady was urged in a song to raise her lower limbs?’ there was a momentary pause, then Mrs Bosham suddenly screeched ‘Mother Brown’ so loudly that people near her almost jumped out of their seats.
‘That’s right—Mother Brown it is. Give her a prize.’
The very beautiful girl in evening dress who was the compère’s assistant presented Mrs Bosham with a box of soap and talcum powder.
‘Now, madam, what is your name?’ asked the compère, leaning over and holding the mike close to her mouth.
‘Bosham—Mrs Bosham.’
‘And you’re—a Londoner, I think.’
‘Oh, yerse—born and bred…’
Mrs Bosham was scarlet in the face with excitement, which made her look even fatter than usual. Maddy and Zillah were doubled up with giggles.
‘And—er—you’re a housewife?’
‘Well, I’m a widow woman, as you might say. And I takes in lodgers.’
For some reason this appealed to the audience and they applauded.
‘Now, this song—“Knees up, Mother Brown”—you’re a Londoner, so you ought to know it. D’you think you could sing the chorus?’
‘Ooh,’ squealed Mrs Bosham, ‘I couldn’t—really I couldn’t…’
‘Go on,’ hissed Maddy and Snooks.
‘Well, I’ll ’ave a go at it.’
Mrs Bosham’s voice was not melodious, but it was certainly penetrating, and the audience applauded loudly.
‘Now, Mrs Cosham…’
‘Bosham, please,’ she corrected the compère.
‘Oh, yes—Mrs Bosham—when we go on the air, in a few minutes’ time, will you join us on the stage and enter for the quiz competition? There are some magnificent prizes you can win—a washing machine, a radiogram, a television set…’
‘Righto,’ said Mrs Bosham promptly.
‘Jolly good. Now please give your name and address to my assistant.’
The compère passed on to find more victims, and the beautiful young lady wrote down Mrs Bosham’s name and address and showed her a list of various subjects from which she could choose one, on which to answer questions.
‘What about cookery?’ asked the young lady tactfully. ‘That’s quite a good subject, don’t you think?’
‘No, no,’ Maddy urged Mrs Bosham, throwing tact to the winds. ‘Don’t choose cookery.’
‘Well—er—current events then?’
‘No—I don’t think I’d know them.’
The assistant looked at her doubtfully. ‘Well, what about Old London?’ she said at last in desperation.
‘Old London—yes, that’s a good ’un,’ agreed Mrs Bosham. ‘Don’t expect I’ll know any of the answers though.’
‘Oh, yes you will; they’ll be quite simple questions. Now, would you care to follow me, and come through behind the stage so that you’re ready when it’s your turn.’
With a great flurry Mrs Bosham departed, giggling and squealing.
‘Oh, I do hope she wins something.’ Maddy was bouncing up and down with excitement.
‘And—and will everyone watching at home see Mrs Bosham?’ asked Zillah wonderingly.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Maddy.
‘Well, it will be a real treat for them,’ said Mr Snooks sincerely, and Maddy came to the conclusion that he was really a very nice man indeed.
Before the televised part of the programme started, there was an air of excitement over the whole theatre. The cameramen, perched on their cameras, were preparing to go into action in earnest.
Just when they went on the air the compère told a funny story so that everyone was laughing as the curtain went up, and the programme had begun.
Maddy and her party were on such tenterhooks, waiting for Mrs Bosham’s entrance, that they hardly noticed the first part of the programme. A very clever young man, who was an Oxford undergraduate, answered some mathematical questions and won an electric razor. A rather silly girl didn’t know any of the answers to some questions about the theatre, and a housewife won a washing machine for giving the correct replies to the cookery questions. Then came the break in the programme while the advertisements were on, and during this time the compère told another funny story, so that the audience were all laughing when they were seen again. And then it was Mrs Bosham’s turn.
Maddy and Zillah and Snooks were giggling and nudging each other, and were so restless that the people in the row behind protested.
‘And now,’ said the compère, ‘we come to our next contestant—a Londoner born and bred. Mrs Bosham,’ he announced with a flourish. There was a roar of applause, and Mrs Bosham waddled on to the stage, beaming with confusion. The compère put his arm round her, and drew her to stand as near as possible to him.
‘That’s to let the camera get a nice close two-shot,’ said Maddy knowledgeably.
‘Now then, Mrs Bosham, how long have you lived in London?’
‘All me life. Sixty years—getting on fer…’
‘Sixty years—and so you feel you’re qualified to answer questions about Old London?’
‘Well, I’ll do me best—can’t do more, as I always say.’
‘That’s the spirit. Well now, here in a sealed envelope are the questions on Old London. Nobody has seen them since they were put there by the university professor who sets the questions. There are three questions. If you can answer all of them, you’ll get one of our mammoth prizes. If you can only answer two, you’ll get a smaller prize. If you can only answer one, you’ll get a consolation prize, and if you can’t answer any—well—I’ll give you a great big kiss!’
Mrs Bosham screeched delightedly.
‘Now, I will open the envelope.’
He did so with a flourish.
‘And here are the questions. Now then—first question. Where did the old Shaftesbury Theatre stand?’
‘Where?’ said Mrs Bosham. ‘Why, Shaftesbury Avenue, of course.’
‘That is correct.’
The compère led the applause, as though she had just answered a very difficult question.
‘You’ve got a consolation prize anyhow, even if you don’t know any more of the answers. Now then, the second question. Name three famous music halls that are no longer in use as such.’
‘Well now,’ said Mrs Bosham, ‘there’s the Empire; that’s a picture ’ouse now; and the ’Olborn, and—and…’
She floundered. Maddy was nearly going mad.
‘Go on—go on,’ she shouted.
‘Do you know any more?’ asked Snooks.
‘No, no, but she must…’
‘Oh, yerse—of course.’ Light dawned slowly on Mrs Bosham’s large countenance. ‘There’s this ’ere one—the Royal. Now it’s bin bought by these ’ere telly people.’
There were roars of laughter and applause.
‘First class, Mrs Bosham! You’ve got a nice prize anyhow, even if you don’t get the next answer. And if you do get it—let’s have a look at the prizes you will be able to choose from…’
Some curtains at the back of the stage parted, and revealed an imposing array of refrigerators, radiograms and television sets.
‘Now then, which have you got your eye on?’ demanded the compère.
‘Oh, I’d have the telly.’
‘Oh, you would, would you? Now can you tell me why?’
‘Well, fer me lodgers.’
‘There now, isn’t that a grand idea?’ said the compère fulsomely, as the curtains swung together again.
‘Now, all you’ve got to do is answer one more question and you’ll win that handsome television cabinet. And here is the last question. Where did the Great Exhibition of London take place—and what happened to the building in which it took place? It’s a difficult one, and you’ve got to get both parts. Now think carefully. No hints from the audience, please. If she thinks carefully the answer will be crystal clear.’
There was laughter from the audience at this hint, but it did not seem to sink into Mrs Bosham’s brain.
‘Well now, it was a little before my time,’ she began cautiously, and had to wait for the audience to stop laughing. ‘But that exhibition was held in the Crystal Palace. Oh, I see—crystal clear—thanks fer the ’int.’
‘Crystal Palace is correct. Now you’ve only got the second half of the question to answer. What became of the Crystal Palace?’
‘Well, it was moved from Hyde Park—that’s where it was, you see, and then it was burnt down, after it was moved to—well Crystal Palace, they call it…’
‘Yes, but where is the place that’s now called Crystal Palace? Can you answer that, Mrs Bosham?’
There was a tense silence while she thought. ‘Well, it’s—it’s South London somewhere, somewhere round…’
‘Near Sydenham,’ said Snooks under her breath, trying to mesmerise Mrs Bosham into getting it.
‘No,’ said Mrs Bosham. ‘No, I can’t say I know.’
There was a groan from the audience. Suddenly she brightened.
‘’Ere young man, read that question again.’
He did so.
‘It’s not in the question. All it asks is what became of it. Well, I’ve told you—burnt down.’
‘You’re right, Mrs Bosham. Quite right,’ admitted the compère. ‘Take your television set—you deserve it.’
Maddy and Zillah went nearly crazy with joy, as Mrs Bosham gave the compère two resounding kisses, one on each cheek.
‘Good old Mrs Bosham,’ said Snooks. ‘There now, aren’t you lucky, Maddy? You’ve got a television to watch, after all, without having to go to the Academy all the time.’
Mrs Bosham returned to her seat, almost collapsing with excitement. She had to open her massive handbag and bring out a large handkerchief with which to mop her face, and then a bottle of smelling salts with which to revive herself.
‘Well, just fancy,’ was all she could say, while the others congratulated her and thumped her on the back.
‘Fancy you knowing all those things,’ Maddy marvelled.
‘I never knew I knew them,’ Mrs Bosham protested modestly.
The rest of the show did not seem particularly interesting after all the intense excitement they had had, and they kept plying Mrs Bosham with whispered questions.
‘When will it come?’ Maddy wanted to know.
‘Tomorrow or the next day.’
‘How exciting.’
‘What’s it like backstage?’ Snooks asked.
‘Untidy,’ was Mrs Bosham’s reply.
‘All the excitement has made me ravenous,’ said Maddy when the show was over and they were filing out.
‘Let’s go and have something to eat, then,’ said Mr Snooks, confirming Maddy’s opinion that he was a very nice man.
As they went out of the theatre people kept coming up to Mrs Bosham and congratulating her, and telling her she was ‘as good as a tonic’, and making other complimentary remarks.
‘It’s bin the most exciting day I’ve ’ad since the Coronation,’ she said as they came out into the fresh air.
‘Now,’ said Mr Snooks, ‘where shall we eat?’
It was difficult to find anywhere suitable, as there seemed to be nothing but snack bars and public houses.
‘Oh, look,’ said Maddy. ‘Fish and Chip Bar.’
‘I’ve never been in a fish and chip bar,’ said Mrs Snooks. ‘It might be fun.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Zillah.
‘You’ve never been in a fish and chip shop?’ cried Mrs Bosham, as horrified as the others had been at hearing Zillah had never been to a theatre.
They went upstairs to the ‘dining-room’, and there on long marble-topped tables that reminded Maddy of an old-fashioned washstand in the attic at her grannie’s, they ate enormous platefuls of fish, cooked in bright orange batter, and piles of golden chips.
‘This occasion must be celebrated,’ said Mr Snooks, and called for glasses of bright-red fizzy raspberryade, in which to drink Mrs Bosham’s health.
‘Now where do you think I should put the telly?’ pondered Mrs Bosham. ‘In the droring-room, or in the basement?’ The ‘droring-room’ was hardly ever used by the lodgers, for it was very cold, and furnished with hideous heavy furniture, and had lace curtains that were rarely washed and gave the room a musty smell.
‘Oh, in the basement,’ cried Maddy. ‘It’s so much cosier. And if you put it in the drawing-room all the lodgers would watch it, but if you have it in your basement they will have to wait to be invited.’
‘Course I could put it in the dining-room—but no, we’d never get meals over.’
Mrs Bosham toyed with the thought of the television for a long time, until the Snooks family suddenly realised that they would lose their last train if they did not hurry. Everybody thanked everyone else for a lovely evening, and Mr Snooks insisted on paying the bill. Then they went out into the dark street, and the girls shouted goodnights to each other as they went their opposite ways.
Next day was Friday, and Maddy was dying to tell Mr Manyweather all about the previous night’s outing, but when he arrived he, too, was bursting with news. His hair was untidier than ever, and behind his thick spectacles his eyes were gleaming with excitement. He sat down at the piano and struck a thunderous chord in order to gain the attention of the class.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I must have a careful look at you.’
He got up and went round the whole class peering short-sightedly at them, stroking his chin and saying ‘M’m’. This made them all giggle, and he had to strike another chord in order to quieten them.
‘Oh, what’s the matter, Mr Manyweather?’ cried Rosalind. ‘Do tell us.’
‘Well, it’s all rather exciting,’ said Mr Manyweather. ‘A friend of mine who produces for commercial television is looking for a girl or a boy to take part in a series for children, and he’s holding auditions next week. He knows I teach here, so he asked me if I had any pupils who might do, and, if so, to send them along. The age limits are over twelve and under fifteen. Now, that cuts some of you out, doesn’t it?’
It did. It eliminated Rosalind, Zillah and Armand, who all groaned loudly.
‘Television experience, while not absolutely essential, would be a help. That puts Buster and Snooks well in the running. And a blond would be preferred—Maddy, here’s your chance—or Colin…’
Everybody giggled at the idea of Colin being called a blond. His hair was straw-coloured and he had eyelashes to match.
‘I think all of you who come into the age group might as well go out for it,’ continued Mr Manyweather. ‘But I warn you that none of you may meet their requirements. There’ll be hundreds going in for the job, and it would be a feather in our caps if someone from the Academy got it.’
There was an excited buzz of conversation as people discussed their chances, and the three who were too old bemoaned their fate.
‘What sort of things have we got to do for the audition, Mr Manyweather?’ asked Buster.
‘A short speech of your own choice, and then they’ll give you things to do on sight.’
Everybody groaned. Although they had plenty of practice at sight-reading they all dreaded it.
‘What studios do we have to go to?’ asked Colin eagerly.
‘Not to any studios. Just to the producer’s office.’
‘However will he get a hundred into his office?’ Maddy wanted to know.
‘Not all at once, Gretchen. You will each have separate appointments. Now, I’ll make a list of all your names and give it to him. After that we’ll consider you individually and decide what each shall do for the audition. And as Zillah and Rosalind and Armand are too old they can come and sit up at the table with me and be an advisory panel, helping me to decide.’
This was the sort of suggestion that made Mr Manyweather popular. He never let anyone feel out of things.
The rest of the lesson was spent hearing speeches and discussing what would be best for whom.
That afternoon on the way back to Fitzherbert Street Maddy said, ‘I’m awfully glad you’re not going to the audition, Zillah.’
‘You selfish thing…’
‘No, what I mean is, I’m glad I haven’t got to compete against you. You see, I intend to win this audition!’