Changing
IT WAS SEPTEMBER AND TIME to go back to school. But I wasn’t as reluctant as usual because now I was in the fifth year. This was the year things got serious, the year for O levels. At last I got to wear a white shirt, not the pale blue one of the first four years. The shirt said everything about who you were. It made me look different. And I felt different, wearing the white shirt and my navy skirt with a swing and a sheen from years of wear, and my tie with its special knot. It all added up to being someone in the school, someone important.
We were in a new form room, one that I had always thought was for the impossibly senior pupils; and now that was us. Our form mistress was Miss Beasley, the most respected teacher in the school. Her subject was history, one of my subjects. I’d got 75 per cent for that in the exams, out of my final average of 65 per cent. I wanted to get serious. I wanted to get good marks.
Cray and I were on our way to English when Judith’s friend, Rosemary, stopped us. As well as running the drama group, she was the new head of our house, Tancock. The Tancock colour was unfortunately yellow and if you wanted to, you could wear a badge on your tie that was an enamel strip of sunshine. I didn’t want to. But Rosemary wore the diagonal yellow stripes of the house tie, which only members of the sixth form were allowed to wear. ‘Could I have a word?’ she said to me.
‘Why?’ I looked round.
‘They probably want you to join the house hockey team,’ Cray murmured. Although this was inconceivable, unless the roof of the gym had fallen in on every other member of Tancock, I still had a small thrill of hope.
‘Your sister Judith . . .’ Rosemary began.
‘Judith?’
‘. . . says you’re free in the evenings after school.’
‘Does she?’ Oh God, what did they want? Would they ask me to clean the hockey sticks? Prepare the pitch? Pick up litter?
‘She says you’re funny. Can you come to a meeting of the drama group tomorrow afternoon?’
‘The drama group!’ I said to Cray, as we walked into English. I hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t what mods did, but I was quite excited.
‘Get you, funny girl,’ Cray said.
*
Casually I walked past the noticeboard where the school societies put up information. There it was. ‘DRAMA SOCIETY, PANTOMIME AUDITIONS’. The word Thursday was crossed out and replaced by ‘TONIGHT! ROOM 31’.
After school, back in Miss Reeves’ classroom with the drama group, I half-recognised a few of the girls. Some of them even said hello to me. Rosemary was there and seemed delighted to see me, which made me feel better. Then I noticed she was thrilled to see everyone as they came through the door. She described the roles that needed to be filled and then she handed out the script to each of us. It was two sheets of paper.
‘Really?’ I said hesitantly. ‘It’s going to be a very short evening.’
People laughed.
‘It’s a draft,’ Rosemary said. The play would develop as the weeks went by, she said. It was going to be a modern take on an old favourite – Cinderella. She wanted input from everyone, those who wanted to act and those who would work backstage. Everyone had ideas, what Cinders should wear, what music might be good, who would do the scenery, and then Rosemary said, ‘What about a mod view?’ Everyone turned to me.
I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Erm. Scooters? Prince Charming could wear a parka.’
‘Ooh, yes!’ said a little first-year, clapping her hands.
‘The Ugly Sisters could be rockers,’ I said.
‘Ye-e-es,’ said Rosemary. ‘We were hoping we could get teachers to play those roles. Not sure what they’d think about having beehives.’
‘Miss Soames has one already,’ I said. ‘She just hasn’t mastered the full leather-jacket-with-chains look yet.’ People sniggered.
‘Miss Reeves would look good in American tan,’ said another girl with short blonde hair and a sixth form tie. American tan stockings were what rocker girls wore. There was someone in the group who got the joke!
‘And white stilettos look good on anyone,’ I said. We looked at each other and laughed.
It was half past five. The time had gone so fast.
Rosemary said, ‘Charlotte, can you collect the drafts?’
‘OK.’ It was the girl who’d talked about American tan. ‘Can I have all the drafts and your lists of ideas,’ she shouted.
I handed in my papers. I’d scribbled a note about a possible double act. Charlotte glanced at it, then turned back to me. ‘Perhaps we should do something together.’
I nodded. ‘All right.’