Theatre Shoes (17 page)

Madame laughed.

“Well, it's no good any of the flowers liking butter in wartime, so I don't think we'll have any wind blowing, Holly. I want a very grand, proud buttercup who stands still and shows off her petals.”

She turned back to Mark.

“That was very nice indeed, Mark, though there was one moment when I was a little nervous whether I was going to be able to see you as a bear later on.”

Mark was still in his bearskin, but he had the bear's mask under his arm. He raced down to the footlights, his words falling over each other.

“It wasn't anything to do with bears, it was a hiccup!”

“I see. Well, I suppose hiccups happen to even the best singers; but I very much hope nothing like that will happen to-morrow. It would be most disappointing if I were unable to see you as a bear a second time. Now all the dancers and singers can go. I only want those concerned with the sketches to remain.”

Sorrel wriggled her way to the back of the waiting children. “Oh, gosh!” she thought. “Now it's coming. She's going to tell me I was terrible, and I know it's perfectly true.”

Madame waited until the last of the dancers and singers had gone through the pass door.

“The sketches which concern Sorrel were, naturally, a little ragged. You're used to playing with Miranda, so that is only natural; but on the whole, I am very pleased with you all. When we get back to the Academy, Miss Jay will, of course, take you through them again and give Sorrel a chance to feel easy in her parts. Now where is Sorrel? Come here, my child. I'm really delighted with you. It's your first term, your clothes don't fit; they will, of course, be altered to-day. You have in no sense been the official understudy, so really it was a splendid effort. Now, don't feel anxious or worried. I'm sure we are all going to be very proud of you to-morrow.”

Sorrel went back to her dressing-room, hardly knowing that she was walking. She had been so certain that Madame was going to say that she was going to send for Miranda after all, that she had hardly taken in what had been said to her. As she changed, she told Alice all about it.

“I'm going to do it to-morrow, all of it. The two long speeches at the beginning and the end, and the three little ones—the one explaining about the nursery rhymes and the one explaining about the winter ballet, and the one telling about the songs. I don't mind them so much; it's the sketches, particularly that awful one where I am a picture come to life. Of course, the thing I step out of may look like a picture on an easel from the audience: but I feel that I'm twitching all over and that everyone knows from the beginning that I'm not a painting. Then, in the scene where I'm a schoolgirl who dreams that she's in a Victorian schoolroom, I feel all legs. I suppose it's because the others have got long skirts and pantalettes. I'm not a bit good at all that lacrosse and tennis talk. I don't know how Miranda managed to sound as though she was; but she did, somehow. The awful part is, I'm meant to be funny. Of course, I know there was only Madame in the theatre this morning; so, of course, nobody could laugh. But won't it be awful if nobody laughs to-morrow! The seamen laughed and laughed when Miranda did the part.”

Alice plaited Sorrel's hair.

“Now don't go working yourself up into a state. All you have to do is to go on and do your best, and nobody can't ask for more. If I hadn't had young Holly to keep a hold on, I'd have nipped round in front to have a look at you; but I'll manage to have a squint to-morrow.”

The next afternoon Sorrel stood beside Miss Jay. They peered at the audience through a little hole in the curtain. It was a special performance for Forces on leave and the house was full of battledress, and the khaki of the girls' coats and skirts and the navy blue of the sailors and of the W.R.N.S., and the light blue of the Air Force and the W.A.A.F. Because everybody was on leave, and, therefore, in good spirits, there was an absolute roar of conversation and laughter, and the theatre was grey with cigarette smoke. Sorrel looked up at Miss Jay.

“They don't look as if they needed amusing very much, which is a good thing, isn't it?”

Miss Jay laughed.

“We shall soon know if we don't amuse them; they won't mean to, but they'll shuffle their feet and cough. Even the nicest audience can be turned very easily into a nasty one.” She was holding Sorrel's hand, and she gave it a squeeze. “Not that I'm worrying about you. I'm sure you're going to be a great success.”

“If only something didn't seem to be turning round and round in my front.”

“Everybody's got to be nervous,” said Miss Jay. “But there're some things you can do to help it, try taking very deep breaths.”

Sorrel tried. But somehow the breath got stopped half way.

“I can't. It's coming out in little pants, like a dog in the summer.”

“Try again,” Miss Jay encouraged, “and I'll try too.”

Miss Jay breathed and Sorrel breathed, and all of a sudden Sorrel found it was quite true, the deeper her breaths the less disturbed her front felt.

Winifred came over to them.

“I've got a message for you from Madame. What do you think is waiting for you at the Academy when we go back after the matinée?” She saw that Sorrel was not going to guess and was bursting to tell her the news. “It's a letter from Pauline Fossil, and there's one for Holly from Posy.”

Miss Jay looked at Winifred.

“This theatre must bring Pauline back to you.”

Winifred nodded.

“I can see us as if it was yesterday, sitting side by side at the audition, me looking a perfect fright in brown, and Pauline looking simply lovely in black chiffon velvet. I knew it was hopeless for me from the beginning and that she'd get the part of Alice.”

“Curious,” said Miss Jay, “how history repeats itself. That little scene yesterday morning must have reminded you of when Pauline put on airs and graces, and you were sent on to play for her, do you remember?”

“Of course. Will I forget? But Pauline was never a bit like …”

Miss Jay laid a hand on Winifred's arm and stopped her.

“Well, it must be about time we were ringing up. Come along, Sorrel dear.”

Sorrel followed Miss Jay back to the prompt corner. She knew they were not going to ring up, but that Winifred had been going to say that Pauline was never a bit like Miranda. Obviously she could not have been, because everybody in the Academy had been fond of her. Though everybody in the Academy admired Miranda's work, nobody was really fond of her. It seemed so queer to think that Winifred had been a pupil of Miss Jay's. Somehow, when a person was grown up and was teaching you, you thought of them just as grown-ups and teachers, and forgot that there were all sorts of ages in grown-ups. Winifred had not stopped being a child very long. It was all queer, very queer. It made Sorrel feel confused. Then suddenly, the orchestra stopped playing popular songs and began Roger Quilter's Children's Overture. It was their own music. She clutched at her front.

“Oh goodness, that means we are going to begin, doesn't it?”

Miss Jay kissed her.

“It does. As you are down already and won't be called, I shall say to you, ‘Overture and beginners, Sorrel, please.'”

The curtain was up. Sorrel had to come through the front cloth to speak the prologue. The front cloth was of a light lemon colour, and Sorrel, who was not very tall for her age, looked small against it, standing there all by herself. Then her dark hair and black tunic stood out clearly, and the effect was nice. For one or other of these reasons, or perhaps just because the Forces were on leave and in a very good temper, but before she could speak at all they began to clap. Sorrel had never thought of clapping to start with. Why, indeed, should there be when you had not done anything? She tried to speak through it. The audience saw her mouth moving and, whilst some of it was still clapping, the other half were saying “shush.” Then from the prompt corner in just as ordinary a voice as she used in the classroom, Miss Jay said:

“Make a nice curtsey, Sorrel, and begin all over again.”

It seemed queer to Sorrel to hear her voice in that great big place and the first few words left her mouth in a very wobbly condition. Then all of a sudden the audience's friendliness came to her like a hug, and she spoke directly to it as if it were an old friend. Her prologue was one of welcome, it explained what they were going to try to do to amuse, and finished by announcing the ballet that was to follow. Then she curtsied. There was a roar of applause. She slipped back through the curtain and joined Miss Jay on the side of the stage. Her first entrance was over.

The ballet was not Miss Jay's business. It was Winifred's. Winifred watched it from the wings muttering, “Look at Angela's posture! That's a queer sort of jeté. Oh, what a shocking pirouette!”

Miss Jay drew Sorrel against the wall.

“Very nice, dear.”

“I'm sorry about the muddle at the beginning, but I never expected them to clap.”

They were, of course, speaking in whispers. Miss Jay leant down.

“Never mind, you've learnt a very valuable lesson about speaking through applause.”

Sorrel's next entrance was to announce the nursery rhymes and then she had to change for her first sketch. Mark came through the pass door and strolled down to her. He looked absolutely unconcerned, and he also, though Sorrel would not have dreamt of telling him so, looked awfully nice in his Kate Greenaway suit.

“Alice has gone in front. Hannah won't sit in the dressing-room. She said when Holly's face was painted that Holly was like Jezebel, you know, the one the dogs ate.”

“How do you feel?” asked Sorrel anxiously.

Mark looked surprised.

“I wasn't feeling ill.”

Sorrel did not want to put it in his head that he might be nervous, but it did seem queer that anyone should be so calm.

“I meant about singing.”

Mark put on a lordly expression.

“Everybody keeps fuss, fuss, fuss, except me; and I just don't see anything to fuss about.”

“Except,” Sorrel reminded him, “that if you don't sing well, you can't be the bear in the ballet.”

“And who said I wasn't going to sing well? I just know that I am, so why should I worry?”

Mark was perfectly right. He sang quite beautifully. What was less certain, he strolled to the centre of the stage to sing in just the right way. He was so enchanted at the volume of applause that greeted his songs that, without being told, he gave the same beautiful bow that he gave when greeting Madame, and that made the audience clap louder than ever. Miss Jay, standing on the side of the stage with Winifred, looked at him with amused admiration.

“In any other child this performance would need checking; one would have to be careful that the child didn't get its head turned and didn't get hold of stagy tricks; but I take a bet with you that Mark has no conception at this moment that he's Mark. Whatever else he's been this afternoon, it's not Mark Forbes.”

Nothing could be encored on the programme because there was only an hour and a half allowed for the Academy, and they had a programme lasting exactly that long; but if it had been possible to encore, then Mark's singing would have been. As he came off, Miss Jay beckoned to him.

“Well done, Mark! That was very nice indeed. Now run quietly off to your dressing-room and put on your bearskin.”

Mark looked at her disapprovingly.

“We have been,” he said, “receiving our subjects. We shall not be giving any further audiences to-day.”

Miss Jay was a quick thinker.

“I see, sir. And I take it that it is your Royal wish that your understudy should appear as the bear.”

Her words broke the dream world in which Mark had been living; he might be royal at that particular moment, but he was not so far away in his imagination that he could not shoot back to cling on to his bearskin. He grinned at Miss Jay.

“From this minute I'm a bear, a very quiet bear, skating very softly, so softly you won't hear me go.”

The other big success of the matinée was Miriam. Her dancing absolutely charmed the audience, who shouted for her when the ballet finished. Winifred watched her and there were tears in her eyes.

“What extraordinary fortune! You would think that a school that had produced Posy Fossil would not get the same luck twice.”

Winifred had spoken her thoughts out loud. Sorrel thought she was speaking to her.

“But they had you, too.”

“Me, Sorrel! You're only a beginner, but can't you see that something about Miriam's work that makes it quite different from what people like myself do, quite different, in fact, from what one dancer in every million does. Of course, it's too early to be sure yet, but I think she's got that something that'll set her quite apart.”

It was most disheartening how ordinary everything became the second the matinée was over. The dressing-rooms were inspected to see they were perfectly tidy for the real actors who would use them that night, and then Sorrel and Mark and Holly were walking to the Underground with Hannah and Alice. Three ordinary children whom nobody could see had been a leading lady, a big singing success and a Polar bear, or worn such elegance as a buttercup dress only a short while before. Sorrel said:

“Nobody would think, looking at us, what an exciting afternoon we've had.”

Hannah had been rather proud really, but she was not going to say so.

“I should hope not. You look like three children who might be going to tea at a vicarage, and very proper, too.”

“But the afternoon's not over yet, Sorrel,” Alice said. “You and me are going round by the Academy to fetch some letters.”

In a minute the world stopped looking grey, flat and dull, and was as gay as a chalk butterfly. Sorrel skipped with excitement.

“My letter from Pauline Fossil! Isn't it super it turned up just this afternoon!”