“I hope,” said Maddy firmly, “that you will all win something in the Public Show. I shall be most ashamed of you if you don’t.”
“We’ll do our best, ma’am. But it all depends what parts we’re given. Someone’s got to play the uninteresting parts, and if it’s us—we’re done for,” said Bulldog.
“Nonsense!” replied Maddy. “Felicity Warren says that an actress should be able to recite the alphabet backwards, and still make it sound interesting.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Lyn. “How would you win the gold medal if you just had to play a maid, and say, ‘The carriage awaits without’?”
“I’d fill it simply chock full with meaning,” said Maddy. “Think how many ways there are of saying it. You can say it gaily—‘The carriage awaits without’”—she bared her teeth in what she hoped was a vivacious smile—“or you can sweep on and declaim it melodramatically, like this.” She swept across the room, with her hands clasped tragically, and wailed, “The carriage awaits—without.” For a long time they played this new game, until every way of announcing the carriage had been exhausted and they were weak with laughter. But although they joked about it, the question of what parts they would be allotted in the Public Show was an important one, for so much depended on it.
“If only one could win that gold medal,” sighed Lynette. “It would be a start—such a start.”
“What good would a gold medal be in Fenchester?” asked Bulldog. “People like Mrs. Potter-Smith would merely ask if it were made of real gold.”
“But if one of us got it, it would justify us to our parents, and show the Town Council that one at least of us was dependable.”
“When we hear the cast lists we shall know our fates,” said Vicky. “It is quite obvious that whichever of Lynette and Helen gets the better part will also get the medal.”
The rivalry between Lynette and Helen still existed. As each developed in her own way, their styles of acting grew even more different. Now that they were in the Finals, and persons of importance, the Academy was split into two followings, Helen’s and Lynette’s. Lynette’s satellites accused Helen of being too stark and “arty”, and Helen’s upholders regarded Lynette as too flighty and artificial in her acting. And yet the two girls themselves were always on excellent terms. Although not exactly friends, the secret that they shared about Helen’s job as waitress in the low café during the first term seemed to bind them together.
“You can tell,” thought Lynette, “that the theatre is in her blood. So many things that I have to be taught she knows by instinct.”
And then came the fateful day on which the parts for the Public Show were announced. Roma Seymore and Mr. Whitfield were sharing the producing, but it was Miss Smith who read out the list in her clipped, emotionless voice.
“Scenes will be performed from Major Barbara, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Hay Fever, Uncle Vanya, Othello, and Hamlet.”
“Hamlet!” breathed Jeremy, already visualizing himself in black tights with a touch of white at the neck.
“Major Barbara!” breathed Vicky, imagining how much a Salvation Army bonnet would become her.
“Uncle Vanya!” thought Lynette. “Let me see—Sonya? Or Ilena? Which do I want?”
But then the list was read, and the Blue Doors turned to each other helplessly, white with disappointment.
“Of course, there’s no reason why we should be given all the good parts,” murmured Lynette, completely stunned, for she was playing Jenny, a small part of a pathetic little Salvation Army girl in Major Barbara, and Jeremy was not playing Hamlet but a vaguely comic diplomat in Hay Fever. Sandra was playing a decorative but dull widow in the same comedy, and Vicky was playing a Merry Wife, which she had done before, and Bulldog was playing Falstaff, also for the second time. Nigel had a good part in Major Barbara, Bill Walker, the Cockney thug. But as they listened to the rest of the casting, they realized that all the plums had fallen to the lot of other people.
“I think that either Ali as ‘Othello’ or Helen as ‘Sonya’ in Uncle Vanya will get it,” prophesied Lynette.
They went home through the drizzling rain, dragging disconsolate feet.
“We must just make the best of it,” said Sandra with an attempt at cheerfulness. “Come on, let’s go down to the library and try to get hold of copies of the plays.”
“Can’t be bothered,” said Jeremy. “Couldn’t care less about the part.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a drear. We’ll have to learn the parts whether we like them or not.”
“It really is a little thick,” grumbled Lynette. “We sweat for months and months, studying as hard as we can, and then, when we get a chance to prove ourselves, to be given such bad parts!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bulldog cheerfully, “they might be worse. One girl has only got three lines, you know.”
“It’s all right for you,” retaliated Lyn. “You couldn’t have a better part than Falstaff. It’s absolutely you.”
“Type-casting, of course,” agreed Bulldog. “But all the same it wasn’t the part I wanted.”
“Oh, you’re never satisfied!” Maddy scolded them. “At least you haven’t got to announce the carriage.”
The atmosphere in the Finals’ class was extremely tense during these last few weeks. Everyone was so deeply immersed in his own particular little bit for the Public Show that the team spirit usually apparent had entirely disappeared. There was constant friction among the students and between the teachers, and every day produced its own tears and scenes. Nigel and Lynette quarrelled bitterly over their scene in Major Barbara, and Sandra and Jeremy were so bad that they were threatened with having their parts taken away from them.
“What a climax to our brilliant careers at the Academy!” laughed Jeremy cynically. “However we dare to think of opening a professional company I can’t imagine!”
In order to give everyone a scene it meant a tremendously long programme that was difficult to rehearse in the few short weeks that were left of the term, and they were kept late at the Academy nearly every evening. The days were very hot and stuffy, and at night their rooms at No. 37 were almost unbearable. One extremely hot night the three boys could stand it no longer, and got up and carried rugs into Regent’s Park, where they slept under the starry sky until a policeman prodded them in the ribs at seven o’clock next morning, and it was time to hurry home for a bath and breakfast before work.
This year, as the weather was stormy, it was not to be an out-door show, but would take place in the little theatre, which had been newly decorated, ready for the occasion, and smelt sickeningly of fresh paint.
“I shall really be glad to leave, after these awful rehearsals,” said Lynette at the end of a particularly bad session that lasted until seven o’clock in the evening and left everyone exhausted and hot and bad-tempered.
“Unless you all improve considerably,” Mr. Whitfield had thundered. “We shall have to cancel the show. In any case it will be the worst we have ever put on.” “He says that every year,” Roma Seymore told them.
Maddy had been asked to distribute programmes, as she was the youngest, yet the most distinguished pupil of the Academy.
“They’re just showing her off really,” Lynette confided to Sandra. “Everyone will recognize her from Forsaken Crown.”
“Well, I hope she’ll wear something respectable,” said Sandra. “She’s been going round like a little tramp lately.”
The careless clothes affected by some of the students had captivated Maddy, and she now lived in a pair of shabby corduroys, sandals that were always coming to pieces in the street so that she had to stop and take out needle and thread to mend them, and shapeless jumpers that came down almost to her knees. When she heard that she was to be present at the Public Show to give out programmes she was delighted.
“Oh, good!” she cried. “Now I shall be able to lead the applause whenever one of you makes an exit.”
“Don’t you dare,” warned Jeremy.
“Well, at least I’ll be able to listen to what everyone says about you.”
“It will probably be horrid,” moped Jeremy.
An air of depression hung over them and everywhere they went. No. 37 seemed even more squalid than usual.
“It will be nice,” said Vicky, surveying the bath with distaste, “to get home to civilization again.” And yet they well knew that when the day came to leave London and the Academy they would be heart-broken.
There were notices in all the papers that the Academy’s Public Show was about to take place, and mentioning the names of the many distinguished theatre people who were to be the judges. The Blue Doors, knowing how bad they were in their parts, winced at the list.
“If only we’d been eligible at the last Public Show, when we did The Importance,” Lynette moaned.
The last-term students were already on the lookout for jobs, and people were liable to be absent from rehearsals for an hour or two, and then appear, radiant, after a successful audition, or dejected, after a tramp round the agents. The Blue Doors were chafing at their inability to get on with things at Fenchester.
“We’ll be lucky if we open in September,” Nigel observed. “There’s still oodles to be done.”
He and Mr. Chubb, who was proving a tower of strength, went down to Fenchester for several weekends, and returned to report favourably on the building of the dressing-rooms, and the new seating accommodation.
Lynette was in an odd state of dissatisfaction. She was bored with her part in the Public Show, and wishing the term over, and yet she could not bear the thought of leaving London. And suddenly the years that she had spent in constant company with the Blue Doors seemed to catch up on her, and she went out of her way to avoid them, going out in the evenings for long walks by herself, or going to the cinema with other students, whom the Blue Doors considered “outsiders”. She quarrelled with Nigel more than ever, snubbed Maddy, and avoided the other two girls, and although she knew that she was doing it, she could not help it. There seemed to be some problem at the back of her mind that she could not quite face up to. When plans for the Blue Door Theatre were discussed she maintained a remote silence, as though they did not concern her.
“Anyone would think you were longing to be anything but an actress,” complained Maddy. “I should be terribly thrilled if I were ready to leave the Academy and come back with you. I’m always behind the rest of you—and I’ll never catch up. Still, it will be fun to be all on my own up here.”
“I dread to think what mischief you’ll get into,” said Sandra. “But still, it won’t be my responsibility.”
“Mrs. Bosham has promised to ‘look after me like a mother’,” said Maddy. “I jolly well wish she could cook like my mother.”
There was a dress rehearsal of the Public Show which all the students attended, and never was a dress rehearsal worse. It lasted five hours with long waits between acts. The curtains jammed and they had to get the boilerman to come and unstick them, and a piece of scenery fell on Bulldog’s head.
At supper-time Nigel said to Maddy, who had made no comment on the performances, “Well, let’s have it.”
Maddy took a large mouthful of college pudding and said through it, “You were all lousy.”
Lynette flared up. “I’d like to see you do better. On a stage that stank of the paint that was still wet on the scenery, and with a houseful of giggling juniors in front.”
“Don’t wonder we giggled,” retorted Maddy. “That Salvation Army bonnet of yours—golly!”
Before Maddy could be more annoying, Sandra said firmly, “Hurry up and finish your supper. I’m going to wash your hair so that you’ll look nice for tomorrow.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” said Maddy. “I’ll probably have a scarf round my head.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Sandra firmly. “Nor will you wear slacks.”
“Oh, yes, I will.”
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
This continued until Sandra plunged Maddy’s head into the soap suds.
Later in the evening they became conscience-stricken, and had a hurried rehearsal of their pieces for next day, and did voice production exercises as they undressed for bed.
“Moo, mah, may,” intoned Vicky.
“That won’t win you the gold medal,” Maddy told her.
“It’s too late now.”
They all had troubled dreams of going on in the wrong play, or in the right play but the wrong clothes, until Mrs. Bosham brought them up cups of tea.
“As it’s a special sort of day,” she explained.
It was an odd sort of a day, thundery and sunless, with a red glow in the sky at breakfast-time. As they walked to the Academy there seemed to be a breathless hush over the streets. Vicky clutched her tummy and her head in turn.
“Oh, I feel sick. Oh, I’ve got such a headache. I’ll never get used to appearing in front of an audience—never. How I hope to be an actress when I get such stage fright I can’t imagine.”
A large striped awning had been put out in front of the doorway of the Academy, and there were flowers in all the windows.
“Doesn’t it look gay?” said Sandra.
“Quite Continental,” said Vicky.
“Gay,” grumbled Lynette. “I feel it should be draped in black to celebrate the funeral of so many young ambitions.”
“You’re becoming neurotic, my girl,” Nigel told her.
“Well, at least I know how bad I am in the show,” Lyn told him rudely.
“Miaow,” squawked Bulldog.
Chaos reigned inside the Academy. There was a buffet tea being laid in the refectory, and students had to lunch out. Roma Seymore, wearing a turban, ran round in circles, trying to be efficient.
“Bet you she’s got her hair in curlers under that scarf,” said Vicky.
Mr. Whitfield was looking very smart in a tailcoat.
The Blue Doors bought some sandwiches and ate them, sitting in the square, feeding the fluttering sparrows and scraggy cats that frequented the patch of sun-dried grass. As they were not on until the second half of the programme, they stayed to watch the audience arrive. In cars they came, Rolls Royces, and shooting-brakes, in taxis, and on foot—smartly dressed West End actors and actresses, artily clad producers from the out-of-town reps., and a few parents, obviously wearing their best clothes for the occasion. Mrs. Bosham, plus feather boa, was on the pavement to watch the arrivals, clasping her stumpy umbrella, and viewing all that went on with eyes that goggled with excitement. She spotted the Blue Doors and waddled across to them.
“What a collection, eh?” she exclaimed. “Best lot o’ celebrities they’ve ’ad for years. Now, can you slip me in somewhere? I always like to see my young people performing.”
Nigel took her across and explained to Miss Smith who she was. Miss Smith took a doubtful look at the feather boa, and then recognized its wearer.
“But of course! Mrs. Bosham comes every year.”
And radiant with achievement, the happy landlady was led to a seat of honour in the stalls, behind London’s most influential dramatic critic, and next to a popular matinee idol. Maddy came bouncing up to supply her with a programme.
“Hullo, Mrs. Bosham. I’m glad you got in all right.”
“Never miss a public show, if I can ’elp it.”
“Will you try to keep that seat next to you for me when I’ve finished giving out programmes?” asked Maddy, and Mrs. Bosham laid her umbrella forbiddingly across it.
The stalls filled up with a rush. There was much bowing and smiling, and “I really don’t know why I bother to come to these things, my dear. They bore me to tears usually, but one always hopes.” A few press cameras flashed, and everyone started to put on their best smiles. When the lights went down Maddy slipped into the seat beside Mrs. Bosham.
“The gang don’t come on until the end of the show,” she whispered, “but all the best scenes come first, I’m afraid.”
By the first interval there was a feeling that the Gold Medal had already been won, for Helen had given a performance of “Sonya” in Uncle Vanya that made everyone sit up and rustle programmes to discover her name. All the sultry fire of her personality was poured out, and her terms at the Academy had taught her a precision and restraint of feeling that she had not had in the early days. Hearing the applause, Lyn stood in the dressing-room, “Yes, she’s got it. And she deserves it. I think that in time to come we shall be proud to say that we were in the same class as Helen.” And she jammed her ugly Salvation Army bonnet on to her head with a gesture.
The second half of the programme was rather an anti-climax. The Hay Fever scene was not really very funny, though Sandra and Jeremy tried hard with an unhelpful team. Bulldog had a moderate success with his Falstaff, but overdid it as usual, and Vicky was nervous, and a little inaudible.
“Well, I never! Fancy Mr. Bulldog,” was all that Mrs. Bosham could say.
Maddy heard the eminent critic in front of her remark, “I should say that this young boy was very Falstaff, only more so.” “How rude!” she thought. “Or is it?”
Then came the Major Barbara scene. Maddy sat forward on the edge of her seat, hanging on to every remark of the aged critic, and breathing rather hard on his bald head. When Lynette entered he glanced at his programme and mumbled to his companion, “Yes. I remember this girl from last year. Got something.”
Lynette did her best with her few lines, and looked sweet and striking and pathetic. Nigel was too loud and monotonous, and a few people left before the end of the scene, as it was long past tea-time.
“No,” Maddy said sadly to Mrs. Bosham. “She hasn’t got it. I was afraid she wouldn’t.”
“I nearly joined the Salvation Army one time,” was the inconsequent reply.
When the curtain had come down finally and the visitors had hastened upstairs to fall hungrily on the buffet tea, the ten judges went into a huddle in the stalls to decide on the prize-winners. Maddy, on the pretext of collecting the used programmes that were scattered on the floor, hung about appearing to be engrossed, but with her ears nearly on stalks to overhear all that went on. It was decided unanimously that the Gold Medal must go to Helen, but there were numerous other smaller awards to be considered. They decided on Myrtle for the Comedy prize, and one of the old Etonians for Diction.
“Now, what about the prize for Grace and Charm of Movement?” said the matinee idol, scratching his beautifully waved head with a gold propelling pencil. There was considerable disagreement over this. Some stood out for one of the Roedean girls, who had played “Sorel” in Hay Fever.
“What about the little red-haired ‘Merry Wife’? She wasn’t very good but she was graceful.” Maddy sat on the floor under one of the plush-covered seats with her fingers crossed.
“Good old Vicky!” she thought.
“No. I think the dark girl who played ‘Jenny’ in Major Barbara,” said the critic firmly. “She wasn’t consciously graceful, but she put up a very good show. I think she ought to get something, and that’s all that’s left.” Because the critic was by many years the senior of the judges, they accepted his suggestion.
“All right, then. What’s her name? Lynette Darwin. O.K. We’ve finished now,” and thankfully they made their way teawards.
When they had gone up, Maddy swung between the rows of seats chanting joyfully, “Grace and Charm of Movement—Grace and Charm of Movement.”
Miss Smith put her head round the door and said, “Still here, Maddy? You have worked hard today.”
“Yes, Miss Smith,” agreed Maddy smugly.
“Well, if you’re not too tired to go up and hand round cakes you can help clear up whatever is left.” Soon Maddy was burrowing her way through the crowds of sweetly perfumed women and cigar-smoking men, holding out dishes of dainty cakes with the nicest one farthest away from the visitors, in the hope that it would be left to be “cleared up” by herself. Several people recognized her and asked her if she were Madelaine Fayne. To some she said “Yes,” and enjoyed being told how much they had loved Forsaken Crown, and to the others she said gravely, “No. My name is Gladys Smelly,” and enjoyed seeing them choke into their dainty cups of tea. When everyone was full of éclairs and meringues and hoarse with talking, the prize-winners were announced.
“Maddy,” said Miss Smith. “Run down to the dressing-rooms and fetch Helen, Lynette, Richard, Myrtle, and Jane.” In the girls’ dressing-room there was a hubbub of chatter and a smell of removing cream. But when Maddy shouted, “They want the prize-winners upstairs,” there was immediate and breathless silence.
“Helen, Lynette, Jane, Myrtle.”
“Who’s got what? Who’s got the medal?” people shouted, but Maddy only shook her head and ran off to call Richard from the boys’ dressing-room. Shiny-faced from removing grease-paint, and somewhat sheepish, the prize-winners went up to the refectory. The eminent critic made a rather long but witty speech, shook hands with them, and presented the prizes. The gold medal that Helen received was worthless in itself, but to her it opened up gates to further achievement. The minor prize-winners were given books. Lynette received a nicely bound copy of Ellen Terry’s Memoirs, which she already had, but she made a mental note to exchange it with Nigel for his Collected Works of Shaw, of which he possessed two copies. The critic said to Lynette as she was about to go out of the door:
“In fifteen years’ time, my dear, you might—note I say might—be beginning to learn something about the art of acting, and except for the Gold Medallist, I would say that nearly all the other performers this afternoon will by that time be rearing healthy families in Chiswick.” Lynette was very cheered by this rather mixed compliment, and walked back to No. 37 not feeling too bad about having failed to win the Gold Medal.
Maddy sat among the array of half-empty plates left after the departure of the guests, picking a crumbled tart from here and a squashed cream bun from there.
“I bet I’ve enjoyed myself today more than anyone.”
The day after the Public Show started off in a very ordinary way. Kippers for breakfast at No. 37, buying the morning papers on the way to the Academy to see what was said about the Public Show, and a long post-mortem on the subject between themselves.
“You weren’t as bad as I feared,” Maddy told them. “In fact you didn’t disgrace me at all.”
“Thank you. As long as I please you and the critic of the Daily Tribune.”
The Academy looked rather drab without the striped awning, and with the flowers dying in the windows.
“What a boring day this will be,” remarked Lynette. “Everything over, and yet we can’t go home for another week.”
“Can’t think why we’ve bothered to come today,” said Bulldog.
As Lynette entered through the swing doors a junior running up the stairs called out, “Lynette, darling—there’s a telegram for you in the rack!”
“Thanks.” Lynette thought as she took it, “Suppose Mummy and Daddy are coming up to town, or something.”
At first the words did not make sense. She turned it over and looked hard at the back on which, of course, there was nothing.
“Please call at the Tiller and Webb Productions Office, Charing Cross Road, this afternoon at three,” it read.