The Pantomime
IT WAS THE DAY OF THE PANTOMIME. It was after lunch, and we were in the changing rooms preparing for the final dress rehearsal. The changing rooms, between the assembly hall and the dining room on one side and the gym on the other, were normally where classes of girls climbed in and out of divided skirts and Aertex shirts for gym or hockey. Now they had become dressing rooms. And it wasn’t just a different name. The lighting people had put in some extra bulbs above the mirrors so we could see properly to apply our make-up and legitimately gaze at our bright, sparkling reflections.
Cinderella stood in the doorway and said, ‘Who’s that boy who looks like James Dean, out in the car park?’ Heads turned. One or two people stood up. ‘I was thinking I might ask him to take me for a ride,’ she murmured.
Almost everyone left the room and rushed to the window of the dining hall. I followed slowly behind. I had a feeling I knew who it was. ‘Oh, he’s luscious,’ said Jane, the Prince’s Best Friend. ‘Do you think he’s coming to the show? Do you think he’ll see us?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s coming.’ It was Ray on his scooter, wearing his white t-shirt and blue jeans, swerving round the teachers’ cars, looking for somewhere to park.
‘What night’s he coming?’ Jane said.
‘Friday.’ The last night.
We performed the dress rehearsal in front of the first- and second-years. We did it all: the make-up, the costumes, the rock group from the grammar school. It was almost successful. Even though half of the scenery wasn’t finished, the first-years laughed and clapped all the way through – when the pumpkin was still on stage as the carriage appeared, and when Cinders’ missing slipper fitted a Beverley Sister perfectly and then wouldn’t come off. When Charlotte and I came on, the second-years cheered in a mock-bored kind of way, but clapped, too, and laughed at our best lines.
Now, three hours later, it was the real thing, the first night, open to the general public. Audience members were already trickling into the school hall. Two of my aunties were coming.
I was sitting in the changing rooms, trying to quell my nerves. The sound of Mr Wallis, the caretaker, dragging chairs into the back of the hall, drifted into the room. The assistant stage manager, a very organised girl from the fourth year, with a clipboard and some first-year helpers, walked back and forth to the hall carrying piles of boxes, programmes, props. People swept by, muttering their lines: ‘What comes after “Monks are going to matins on their Vespas”?’ and checking their cues: ‘I say, “I’m going on the bus”, and you say, “I’m riding on cloud nine”.’ Cinderella was sitting, shaking under pieces of left-behind sports kit hanging on hooks.
Charlotte and I weren’t on until a third of the way through. The little ones from the first form who played Mice and Fairies sat with us and asked for help with their shoes and their hair and waited for us to make jokes as we did our make-up. The Panstik had been brought in by Miss Evans, who had a friend in the business. We didn’t really need Panstik, but I liked the ritual of smearing it on, feeling the thick greasiness on my cheeks, watching my face change. I loved it all: the make-up, the costumes, the tension, the knot of fear in my stomach. I drew a creamy stripe of orange down my nose.
Rosemary called the cast together. ‘You’re all completely marvellous, and it’s going to be a great show,’ she said. ‘The hall’s just over half-full at the moment, and a lot more are expected. The audience have paid good money to attend this evening, and we are going to give them the show of their lives!’
One of the second-years said weakly, ‘Hooray!’
‘And try not to corpse.’ She turned to Charlotte and me. ‘There is nothing worse than a comedy duo laughing at their own jokes.’
Charlotte and I looked at each other. I’d be lucky if I could remember my lines, let alone laugh at them.
The lights in the hall dimmed into darkness. People in the audience settled into their seats, a few rustled their programmes, someone gave a last cough and gradually silence fell. Charlotte and I crept into the wings to watch. The curtains opened to reveal the brilliantly lit stage, with the dazzling images of a kitchen with a castle in the distance, that the art department had finished half an hour before. There was a spatter of applause from the auditorium. The Beverley Sisters sat round the table in the middle of the stage, exchanging comments about their clothes, their hair and whether they needed a husband or if they should pursue their careers.
‘Why aren’t they laughing?’ I hissed to Charlotte. This scene had received a roar of applause and laughter in the dress rehearsal.
‘They’re listening,’ she whispered, draping an arm round my shoulder. ‘These are the school jokes. The adults are trying to understand the story.’
‘It’s Cinderella! How much do they need to understand?’
Then there was a cheer as the handsome prince, Rosemary, looking cool in a parka and a crown, puttered onto the stage on Ray’s Lambretta, the maroon panels smooth and glowing as if Ray had polished them for days.
In Scene Four, Charlotte and I shuffled onto the stage, in front of the closed curtains, me in Dad’s black plastic mac that came down almost to my ankles and Charlotte in the beige raincoat her uncle had finally donated. There was a ripple of laughter and then silence. ‘We should never have done it,’ I thought. ‘Peter Cook and Dudley Moore are too big to impersonate.’ We moved over to the small round table where we would sit and ruminate about the world and Cinderella, over cups of tea. Perhaps the audience didn’t even know who we were meant to be. I should never have joined the Drama Society. I could have been sitting in the Orpheus staring at a cup of cold coffee. There was a titter and a chuckle I recognised as my Auntie Sheila’s. She probably realised it was Dad’s mac. Then silence again. We sat down.
*
We spoke our lines and people clapped and Auntie Sheila laughed. Almost at once, it seemed, the curtains behind us opened and the group stepped forward and started to play. Our first scene was over. The time had flown.
At the end of the performance Charlotte and I joined the rest of the cast to take a bow. The applause went on. We came off stage and stared at each other. ‘We did it!’ Charlotte whispered.
One of the first-year Fairies came past. ‘You were really good,’ she said, shyly.
‘Thanks, Cherry,’ I said. ‘So were you.’
*
It was the last day of term.
I didn’t care how many people came to the last night, as long as they laughed loudly. But the place was full. Everyone had come; they’d brought their friends, it was standing room only. Charlotte and I peered through the curtains. Sandra was walking in, in her brown leather, looking around to see if she knew anyone. I heard Sylvie’s voice, calling Sandra to join her where she was sitting in the second row. Beside Kenny! Cray, in some new glasses and a fancy dress she had knitted herself, strolled in with other girls from our form and walked to the back row. ‘That’s my fan club,’ I said to Charlotte. ‘I’m expecting them to say they didn’t enjoy it.’
‘Ah, you mean critics,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘We love them, we hate them. Oh, look.’ She pointed out her mum and dad, her mum walking very erect and holding a pair of gloves. Then Val and Noelle from the Milk Bar came in, followed by Mrs Grenville from the Quakers with Jeremy, one of her boisterous sons. And just as the lights were going down, Ray ambled into the hall with his complimentary ticket.
Apart from my classmates, everyone I knew was sitting near the front. I could hear Sylvie’s laugh, warm and gurgling. It was infectious. When Sylvie laughed, people joined in and laughter rippled across the whole hall, as if everyone had just realised what the joke was.
Then it was time for our entrance and, as we wandered onto the stage under the bright, hot lights, I forgot they were there.
When we took our final bow Charlotte and I grinned at each other. Rosemary, in her parka and glittering crown, pushed us forward and a huge cheer filled the room. We held hands and bowed. Then Cherry came forward, careful and self-conscious, and gave a bouquet of chrysanthemums to Rosemary for being an excellent director.
As the curtains closed Rosemary said we had made her proud, we had been great and a pleasure to work with and if she could do it all again she probably wouldn’t. We all clapped and then we left the stage.
In the changing room for the last time, we slathered on cold cream to wipe off the Panstik. The smell of greasepaint and fresh sweat and Miss Evans’ perfume was everywhere. People were laughing and hugging each other and talking about near disasters: when the Prince’s Lambretta had failed to stop at Cinders’ feet and she had to jump out of the way, and the moment the curtains opened to reveal the grammar school boys standing around chatting because they had forgotten they were in the scene, and Charlotte and I had to step in. ‘You were great!’ Rosemary shouted from the showers. ‘Thank goodness you knew the words to “Poison Ivy”!’
‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I made them up.’
I was taking off my baggy trousers when there was a knock on the door of the changing room. A small Gnome, still in her green tunic, answered it. ‘It’s for you, Dud,’ she called.
I went to the door. It was Ray, coming backstage to find his scooter. He grinned at me. ‘You were good,’ he said, ‘but you should have gone on like that. You’d have got even more applause.’ I was wearing Dad’s long white shirt, that stopped just above my knees, and a pair of big socks that were wrinkled round my ankles.
‘Ha ha,’ I said. It was good to see him. I leaned against the door. ‘Thanks for coming. I think I heard you laughing.’
‘You were funny,’ he said.
I wanted him to keep talking. ‘I can’t invite you in, there are people changing.’
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m just being a Stage Door Johnny, and I think this is the nearest you’ve got to a stage door.’ He said he’d enjoyed the play and he thought the scooter had performed very well. ‘It sounded really smooth. I was quite proud.’
‘It did look very clean,’ I said.
‘I don’t suppose you want a ride home?’
I gestured to all the people in the changing room. ‘I can’t,’ I said reluctantly. ‘It’s the last night. We’re all saying goodbye. And I’m meeting Sandra,’ I added. I wanted to be everywhere. I touched the side of his face as Rosemary came up, thanking him for the scooter. They went off together to find it, talking about engines and CCs.
‘Was that someone offering a lift home?’ Cinderella said innocently, with a pretty smile. ‘I think I’ve missed the last bus.’
‘He’s going the other way,’ I said, although I didn’t know where she lived.
I pulled on my ski pants and Fred Perry and stuffed my costume into my duffel bag. Charlotte came over. ‘Come and meet the parents,’ she said, ‘or I’ll never hear the end of it.’
We called goodnight to everyone. I slung my bag over my shoulder and we walked out of the changing rooms.
The hall was still quite full. Mice and Fairies were jumping up and down with their mums and dads. Buttons and the Prince’s Best Friend were talking to some beatniks in the corner. The group were packing up their instruments and swearing because someone had broken something. Charlotte introduced me to her mum and dad.
Her dad said, ‘Ah, we’ve heard a lot about you, Dud.’ He was trying to do Pete’s cockney accent in his posh voice. Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Dad.’ They offered me a lift home but I said no. Charlotte hugged me. ‘We were good, weren’t we? Let’s make sure we’re both in Pygmalion next term,’ she said.
Cray rushed up and said, ‘I only realised it was you right at the end! I knew I should have worn my old glasses.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
She slapped me on the back. ‘The others thought you were great, too, though they weren’t sure who Pete and Dud were. They do too much homework. You’ll be off to RADA now, I suppose. If not, I’ll see you next term, dahling.’
Olivia from YCND came across. ‘You were great. We’ll have to think about a play we can do for CND. You could be a star!’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Val and Noelle were leaving and I ran over to them. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘You were beautiful,’ said Noelle. ‘Particularly the singing.’
‘It was fab,’ Val said. ‘Will you be strong enough to come into work tomorrow, or have you got a date with Hollywood?’
‘I’m accepting no offers tonight,’ I said. ‘See you in the morning.’
Mrs Grenville came across, buttoning her coat. ‘We enjoyed it very much. Didn’t we, Jeremy?’
Jeremy frowned. ‘I liked your plastic mac,’ he said.
I smiled. ‘See you on Sunday.’
I walked over to the side of the hall where Sandra was waiting for me. But I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay in the half-magic that was left of the pantomime.
‘I didn’t know your part was going to be so big.’ Sandra lowered her voice. ‘I was so embarrassed. Sylvie was laughing like a hyena all the way through.’
‘She did that on purpose. I was pleased about that.’
‘You didn’t have to sit next to her.’
A little girl who had been a Dancing Broomstick in Cinders’ kitchen came up to me, still in her besom costume. ‘Bye, Linda, see you next term,’ she said sweetly.
‘OK, Libby, have a nice Christmas.’
‘Thank you. And you.’ She slid away.
Ruth Danes, the Head Girl, came past. ‘Well done, Linda, you were great.’
‘Thanks, Ruth.’ She would never normally talk to me.
Sylvie appeared. ‘You were wonderful, my girl.’ She paused. ‘Kenny says shall we go to the Compasses for a celebratory drink?’
I didn’t want to go there, either. I looked at Sandra. She frowned.
‘OK, chicken,’ Sylvie said. ‘Enjoy your night.’ She and Kenny walked off, arm in arm.
‘That Kenny,’ Sandra said. ‘What does she see in him?’
‘He’s a good man,’ I said carefully.
‘If you say so, but imagine kissing someone with a beard.’
‘No thanks.’
Sandra looked at her watch. ‘Come on. If we’re lucky we might get a lift.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Cooky had to work late but I said if he was outside your school at half past ten he might discover the secrets of the Orient. Well, the secrets of our estate. Some of them.’
My eyes flicked down to her left hand. There was no eternity ring on her third finger.
Everyone had gone. Mr Wallis the caretaker was limping round the hall, rearranging chairs. ‘I like Dudley Moore,’ he said as he passed us. ‘You weren’t bad.’
Sandra and I walked out of the school, arm in arm, singing, ‘I’d love you on a scooter if your hooter didn’t make me break my heart’, which was a song the Beverley Sisters sang in Act One of the pantomime. I still felt drunk with the play. People laughing and laughing. Charlotte and I harmonising to ‘Poison Ivy’. A perfect day.
And now it was the start of the school holidays, it was only a week till Christmas and I had an idea that I knew where I was going. I wanted to be an actress. I would apply to drama school; perhaps I’d even try for RADA, like Cray had said. I would be famous.
As we got to the road, the lights of the Corsair flicked on. The car rolled towards us. I said I didn’t want a lift, I’d walk home. ‘Sure?’ said Sandra.
‘Yes.’ I grinned.
She frowned. ‘Are you all right? You’ve not taken a few purple hearts, have you?’ she said.
‘I didn’t need to,’ I said. ‘Goodnight.’
I walked up to our house, round the side to the back door and into the kitchen. ‘Better a Lambretta, than a carriage for a marriage’, I sang to Judith, who was making a cup of cocoa. It was the song from the last scene.
‘Well, after the pain of tonight’s rendition of “Poison Ivy”, I am happy to announce that I don’t need to listen to your singing anymore,’ she said.
‘Are you leaving home?’
‘No. Come into the front room.’
It was a record player, in square brown leatherette. ‘Dad bought it for all of us for Christmas.’
‘But we haven’t got any records,’ I said.
‘That’s what you think, but James, who is so boring in your eyes, brought round this.’ It was an LP of the Supremes.
Carefully she took it out of the cover and then the inner sleeve. She turned a knob with a click, slid the record onto the turntable and gently put the needle in place. The echoing handclapping which was the start of ‘Baby Love’ filled the room.
‘How come he’s given you the Supremes?’ I said. ‘I thought he liked folk.’
‘He says they’re very good.’ She held out her hand and we started jiving in a clumsy, mismatched way. We’d just decided to do the hand jive when the phone rang.
‘It won’t be for me. Everyone I know has gone off somewhere lovely for the holiday,’ Judith said, dramatically. ‘It’s only me left in this dreary little town.’
‘Well, don’t let me hold you back,’ I said. ‘This dreary little town might be less dreary if you went with them.’
The phone kept ringing. I answered it.
The line crackled and I could hear the sound of people shouting and laughing, then Sylvie’s voice came down the line. ‘Ah, you’re at home, Linda! So now I must ask you, would you like to come round to our house for a Christmas drink on Christmas Day? All the family are coming, including the Braintree crowd, so it would be rather nice if you could be there too.’
I took a breath. There were a million reasons why I would not like to go round to their house on Christmas Day, and not just because I didn’t really want to be in the same room as her Uncle Peter. Christmas Day was so lovely and special. Waking up early to find a pillowcase full of presents at the foot of the bed, and then going downstairs to open our big presents, a different armchair for each of us, spilling with gifts from the aunties as well as from Mum and Dad. And then handing out the presents I’d bought and painstakingly wrapped in the gold and red cellophane paper I’d sent off for with Vim coupons. Spending the morning trying on new clothes, reading new books and writing with new pens on new stationery. Then Christmas dinner, chicken and roast potatoes and brussels sprouts, and Christmas pudding with sixpences. And Christmas Top of the Pops while we were eating.
‘I suppose I could come in the afternoon.’ There was always a lull in the afternoon till Uncle Don came up with our Christmas annuals, although this year I had asked for a copy of Bonjour Tristesse, in English, that Miss Harmon had mentioned in class, because Honey, my magazine, didn’t have an annual.
‘Do you think you could come in the morning? Because it is going to be quite an important day and the morning is – is the special part,’ Sylvie said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come and you’ll see.’
I told Mum, thinking that she’d say no, you’ve got to stay in and be with the family, like she did when I asked if I could go over to Sandra’s on Sunday mornings. But no. ‘Of course you must go,’ she said. ‘She’s had a very tough year.’
‘So have I,’ I said to Judith. ‘Nobody’s coming to see me.’
‘That’s probably because there is no one who wants to come.’