Inside the Worm (2 page)

‘How the heck do you know?' demanded Fliss. ‘Have you seen one?'

‘I've seen pictures.'

Fliss snorted. ‘I've seen pictures of women with six arms,' she said. ‘Doesn't mean women're like that, does it?'

By the time the meeting ended, everybody had something to do. They even had a title for their play:
Ceridwen – Heroine-Saint of Elsworth
. Robert Field had thought it up and everybody liked it. As she walked with Lisa to their own room for register, Fliss felt they'd made a really good start. She hadn't forgotten her nightmare, but in the warm light of afternoon a dream is just a dream.

‘
HOW LONG DID
old Hepworth say we'd got?' asked Lisa, as she and Fliss walked home that afternoon.

‘Three weeks, wasn't it?' Fliss began calculating aloud. ‘We're in the first week of April, right? Festival week starts on Saturday the twenty-fourth and our play's the following Saturday, which is May the first. So we've got about three weeks by my reckoning. Why?'

‘Oh, I was just wondering. There's a lot to do, isn't there?'

Fliss shrugged. ‘Costume to make, lines to learn. It won't take all that much doing. You don't even need a costume – they'll only see your legs.'

‘I know, but I've got to help with the worm,
and I'm not looking forward to working with Gary Bazzard. You know what he's like.'

‘You said he was OK.'

‘In small doses he's OK, but I'm going to be with him for ages, making the worm and then rehearsing, and I won't even have you to talk to.'

‘You'll have Ellie-May.' Fliss grinned. ‘And David Trotter. I thought you fancied Trot?'

‘Do I heck!'

‘Why are you blushing then?'

‘I'm not.'

‘Oh, I thought you were. Anyway, I'll tell you what.'

‘What?'

‘If you like, and if the others'll let me, I'll help with the worm.' She smiled. ‘My costume's already made, you see.'

Lisa looked at her. ‘How d'you manage that?'

‘Well, all I need is a long white dress, and I've got one from when I was bridesmaid to my cousin last year. I've been dying for an excuse to wear it.'

‘And you'll really come and work on the worm with me?'

‘If it's all right with the others, yes.'

‘That'll be great, Fliss. We're doing it at Trot's place, in his dad's garage. Apparently there's loads of junk there we can use – wire and old curtains and stuff. Trot says the worm's going to look like
one of those dancing lions they have in Thailand – you'll have seen 'em on telly.'

‘Yes, I have. I think it's a good idea, but ours'll need a fiercer head. Thai lions don't look scary at all – they're cute and cuddly.' She grinned. ‘Like Trot.'

‘Shut up.' Lisa kicked a stone into the verge as her cheeks flamed. ‘I can't stand him, if you must know.'

‘Why did you volunteer for the worm, then?'

‘Shut up, Fliss, OK?'

Her friend chuckled. ‘OK. When's the first session, Lisa?'

‘Tonight. Half-six. You coming?'

‘Dunno, do I? Depends how Trot feels really – it's his place. Phone him, then phone me. If he agrees, I'll be there.'

Their ways parted soon after that and Fliss hurried home. It'll be great, she told herself, working with Lisa and the others: creating the monster I'll face on the Festival Field.

So why did I shiver just now?

LISA WAITED TILL
her watch showed one minute past six, then picked up the phone. Her mum was always telling her it was cheaper after six. She punched in Trot's number, feeling once more the slight tingle of excitement she always got when she did this. It's not true what Fliss says, she told herself. About me and Trot. I like him, that's all. We're friends.

There was a click and Trot's voice said, ‘Elsworth four-six-four-two-six-two.'

‘Trot? It's Lisa. Listen. Is it all right if Fliss comes tonight? She offered to help with the worm and I said I'd ask you.'

‘'Course it is. Many hands make light work, as my dad would say. Half-six, right?'

‘Half-six. See you.' She broke contact and punched in Fliss's number. ‘Fliss? Oh, sorry Mrs Morgan, it's Lisa. May I speak to Fliss, please? Thanks. Fliss? Lisa. I called Trot. It's OK for tonight.'

‘Great. See you in twenty-five minutes then.'

‘Right. 'Bye.'

‘I did a rough design,' said Trot, unfolding a sheet of paper.

The four gathered round to see. Mr Trotter had backed his car on to the driveway so they'd have plenty of space.

Ellie-May frowned. ‘It looks like a ladder.'

Trot nodded. ‘I know, except the rungs are too far apart. This is the basic framework, see? We'd stand in a line with our heads between the rungs and the shafts resting on our shoulders. These hoops,' he pointed, ‘are made of wire. They'd run from one shaft to the other like a series of arches, supporting the fabric covering well above our heads and giving the worm's back a nice rounded shape.'

Lisa nodded. ‘You're a genius, Trot. It's brilliant.'

Gary nodded. ‘Looks sound to me, man. Where do we get the stuff to make it?'

‘It's all here.' Trot nodded to where some lengths of timber stood propped in a corner. ‘There're the shafts, and we can make rungs from that too. Dad got it to build a porch and never got round to it.
And there's a coil of wire for the hoops.'

‘What about nails?' asked Fliss.

‘Drawerful in the chest there,' Trot told her. ‘Staples too, for the hoops. We can have the framework done tonight if we get a move on.'

They did better than that, working together smoothly so that by eight o'clock they had a sturdy framework four metres long and almost a metre in height. They stood, fists on hips, looking at it. ‘Four metres,' grunted Gary. ‘The real worm was twenty-two.'

‘Oh sure,' agreed Trot, ‘but a framework that length would be so unwieldy we wouldn't be able to shift it. No, the rest'll be made up of neck and head, and a tail of fabric stiffened with wire.' He laughed. ‘What we'll use for the head I don't know.'

‘Papier-mâché,' said Fliss. ‘It's light, and you can mould it into any shape you want.'

‘Take a lot of paper,' said Ellie-May.

‘Well, there's five of us,' said Lisa. ‘If we get all the newspapers from home and from relatives, we'll have plenty.'

Trot nodded. ‘Papier-mâché it is, then. Shall we meet here tomorrow, same time, to make a start?'

Lisa hung around when the others left. It wasn't fair to leave Trot with all the clearing away, and in any case she felt like walking home alone.

THE REST OF
that week was a busy one for Year Eight. Every spare minute of the school day was spent in discussing the play, and in the evenings the children worked on their costumes. Everybody had a part, as either a villager or a Viking, and the homes of aunts and grandparents were ransacked for materials which might do for a tunic, a helmet or a long dress.

On Thursday afternoon they gave up double games to stage a rough rehearsal on the school field. There were no written parts, so everybody had to make up their lines as they went along. Ad libbing, Sarah-Jane called it, but it wasn't a success. It's not easy thinking up the right words instantly, and when the Viking
Grant Cooper yelled, ‘No way, man!' in the middle of a fight, Sarah-Jane stopped the rehearsal.

‘Grant,' she sighed, ‘Vikings did not go around saying, “No way, man.” '

‘What did they say, then?' demanded Grant.

Sarah-Jane shrugged. ‘I don't know, do I? I wasn't around, but it wasn't “No way, man”, I can tell you that.'

‘Sarah-Jane, I've just had an idea,' said Fliss.

‘What?'

‘Well, we don't know how people spoke in those days, do we? Nobody does. So why don't we do it without words?'

Sarah-Jane looked at her. You mean mime it, or do it through dance or something?'

Fliss shook her head. ‘No. I thought we could have a narrator. You know – somebody who stands at the side and tells the story as the play unfolds. That way, nobody has to learn lines and we can concentrate on the action.'

‘The narrator'd have a lot to memorize.'

‘Not necessarily. He or she could read from a script done up to look like an ancient chronicle or something. Nobody'd be watching the narrator anyway, if we made the action exciting enough.'

‘Hmmm.' Sarah-Jane frowned. ‘It's an idea, Fliss. It'd get rid of “No way, man,” and stuff like that, but who's going to do it?'

‘I will,' volunteered Andrew Roberts, ‘if someone'll help me write it.'

‘We'll all help to write it,' smiled Sarah-Jane. ‘Thanks, Andrew.'

For the moment they carried on with no words except those of Sarah-Jane, who was directing. They hit another snag after Ceridwen banished the worm. ‘What do we do now?' asked Barry Tune. ‘I mean, years go by before the Danes come and kill her.'

‘Hmmm.' Sarah-Jane frowned again.

‘We could have a ceremony,' suggested Waseem. ‘You know – the villagers are so grateful to Ceridwen they make her their chief or something.'

‘Yes,' put in Haley. ‘And remember, the Vikings were raiding long before they settled here. We could show a series of unsuccessful raids with the Danes being repulsed by the villagers.'

Sarah-Jane nodded. ‘Good idea, Haley. Yours too, Waseem. Let's try it.'

They tried it, and it worked. Friday lunchtime they went through it again, this time in the hall. The first bit of narration was ready and Andrew read it as they performed. It looked good. ‘All we need now is the costumes,' grinned Marie. ‘And we're the Royal Shakespeare Company.'

SATURDAY MORNING FLISS
had to go with her mother to buy shoes. Then there was lunch, and by the time she got to Trot's garage the others had practically finished the head. She gasped when she saw it. It was enormous, and looked fantastic with its red eyes and gaping jaws. ‘Wow!' she cried. ‘Those eyes are really ace, Trot. What're they made of?'