Blue Door Venture Read online

  Nigel laughed. ‘I’d like to see Maddy learning Shakespeare in these surroundings.’

  Eventually it was closing time, and the three boys were the last to leave.

  ‘Be seeing you…’ Nigel called out to Nick, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  And he did see them. Every day and all day, for three long weeks, two at least of them were sitting in Nick’s Caff. They had breakfast, lunch and tea and dinner there, and in between were endless cups of tea—strong and black—from chipped cups. They got so unable to face it that in desperation they turned to coffee. But that was worse—made from essence and tinned milk.

  At first Nick eyed them with suspicion. He could not place them. But then he grew used to them. It often happened like that. People adopted his café as a haunt for several weeks, and were there continually, using it as a meeting place, an office, a second home, and then for no apparent reason, they would disappear completely, only to turn up again unaccountably a few weeks, months or years later. These youngsters were evidently another example of it. For the first few days they kept their eyes on the door, their hearts leaping every time the bell clanged, but soon their optimism faded and they sat back reading newspapers, doing the crossword puzzle, waiting for it to be time to slip out for a few hours’ fresh air. Maddy became quite a favourite with the other regular customers. Sometimes she even helped Nick with the washing up. One of the taxi-men would drop in during the slack period of the evening, about half past eight, and hear her lines for the next day’s verse speaking or diction. After a time he became quite a Shakespeare fan, and one evening he and Maddy and Jeremy went off on a jaunt to see a performance at the Old Vic from the gallery. But that was the extent of their outings during those weeks for their funds were slowly disappearing, although the girls were sending as much as they could each week. They began to get very despondent and liverish through sitting about so much.

  ‘It’s quite obvious that he’ll never come here again,’ growled Bulldog. ‘At least, not till he’s spent all our money.’

  Lately, Nick had got into the habit of coming and sitting with them between serving customers. He was never very talkative, but seemed to like their company. Sometimes they casually mentioned Lucky in conversation in a friendly sort of way, hoping that he might make some comment, but it never worked. Tonight, while Nick was at the table, they tried it on again.

  ‘Look,’ said Bulldog suddenly, pointing out of the window, ‘isn’t that old Lucky over the road?’ The others pretended to peer out of the window in an interested fashion, but Nick did not even bother to look.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t be ’im.’ They swung round, dropping their pretence.

  ‘Why not?’ said Nigel tensely.

  ‘’E’s gorn into the country.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Saw ’im yesterday. Meant to tell you. You know when I went out last evening to see my daughter-in-law orf at Paddington? Well, who should I bump into on the platform but Lucky Green. Said he was goin’ to Cornwall or somewhere by the night train. On a job, I think.’

  ‘Cornwall?’

  ‘Think so. Or was it Devon? Well, down that way.’ With one accord they rose. Nigel threw five bob on the table. ‘Thanks a lot, Nick. And thanks for the hospitality.’

  They were out in the street in a flash. Nigel hailed a taxi, and they piled in.

  ‘We want to go to Paddington. But first we want to pick up some luggage at the Young Men’s Hostel in Russell Square. Quickly, please. Do you know when there’s a night train to Cornwall?’

  ‘Ten thirty, I believe,’ said the taxi-man. ‘But you’ll have to move to catch it.’

  ‘What about me? What about me?’ Maddy was inquiring at the top of her voice. ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Nigel told her. ‘You must stay here to maintain communications.’

  They ran up the stairs of the hostel, flung their clothes into their grips, hastily paid the bill and ran down to the taxi, which dashed through the busy streets to the station.

  ‘We’ll send you a wire, Maddy, if we find any address where you can get in touch with us. We may see the girls, too, if we get time.’

  ‘Funny he should go down this way, isn’t it?’ said Jeremy.

  ‘My goodness, can we afford the fare?’ asked Bulldog. They hastily counted up. They would just about be able to do it, with very little left over. As they arrived on the station the whistle for the Cornwall express was just blowing. They dashed through the barrier, ignoring the ticket collector, and jumped on as it began to move.

  ‘Where are you for?’ shouted the guard.

  ‘Don’t know,’ yelled Bulldog, waving his atrocious hat to Maddy.

  ‘Bring him back alive,’ shouted Maddy, waving her beret.

  ‘Have you got a platform ticket, miss?’ asked the ticket collector weakly.

  11

  VILLAGE DRAMA

  The school hall of Little Heseltine was tiny, smaller than the Blue Door Theatre. The village only consisted of a church, a school, two inns, a shop and a cluster of thatched cottages.

  ‘How funny to go to school here,’ remarked Vicky as the car drew up outside.

  ‘How many pupils are there, Miss Felton?’ asked Lyn.

  ‘Only twenty. And ten of them are in the play.’

  ‘Don’t the other ten feel bad about it?’ Lyn wanted to know.

  ‘Yes. But they can’t be in it because they live so far away that they can’t stay for the late rehearsals like the ones from the village. Ah, here’s Miss Presto.’ A brown-faced lady of uncertain age with dark hair wound round her head in a coronet had come to the gate. She greeted Miss Felton warmly, looking surprised at seeing the three girls.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got some visitors for you today, Miss Presto. Three real actresses…’ Miss Presto’s mouth formed an ‘O’ of surprise, and her dark brows disappeared into her hair-line. ‘They’ve come to give us advice about the play, then one of them will adopt you and drop in every day until the festival.’

  ‘How splendid!’ cried Miss Presto. ‘The children will be pleased.’

  They were led into the schoolroom, where twenty desks were arranged in rows, and filled with a medley of girls and boys from four to fourteen or fifteen who all goggled at the sight of the Blue Doors. Round the walls there was a brightly coloured frieze, and on the blackboard a picture of a windmill that all the pupils were copying on to their drawing boards.

  ‘Here’s Miss Felton, children,’ cried Miss Presto. ‘Say good morning to her.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Felton,’ they chorused in a broad West Country burr.

  ‘Well, it’s time for rehearsal of the play, so those not in it can go out and get on with the gardens.’

  ‘Can’t we watch, miss?’ asked a timid voice.

  ‘No—you’re all going to be the audience at the dress rehearsal, aren’t you? Now off you go.’ When they had gone, with a scuffle of boots and a banging of desk lids, Miss Presto announced to the remainder, ‘Now these three young ladies are professional actresses who have come to see your play today, and they are going to give us their advice and criticism, so do your best, children. And no books today. You all know it perfectly well.’

  The desks were pushed to the side of the room to make a space large enough for a stage, and after a lot of chatter and giggling and squabbling, the children were manoeuvred into their correct positions for the beginning of the play, and the two teachers and the Blue Doors settled into chairs in front of them.

  It was a rough and unpolished one-act play about the Restoration period, and at times the girls found it very hard not to laugh. The West Country dialect was so wrong for the courtiers they were supposed to represent. And yet these children had amazing sincerity and enthusiasm. The three girls were brimming over with ideas for how the performance could be improved, and at the end of it, the lists they had drawn up were extensive. They worked with the cast all the morning and most of the afternoon, and by tea-
time there was a noticeable improvement. They had tea at a cottage in the village.

  ‘And now,’ said Miss Felton, ‘for the adults.’

  After a drive of twenty miles or so they came to a British Legion hall, where a group of twelve or fifteen were rehearsing a modern mystery play. To start with, it was very badly written, and secondly, the producer knew very little about producing. The Blue Doors writhed in agony, wondering how they could phrase their criticisms tactfully.

  ‘Not very good, is it?’ whispered Miss Felton. They had to admit it was not. When it was over there was rather a horrible silence. Then Lyn took the situation in hand.

  ‘Now, shall we all start off again slowly, and we’ll discuss every line as we go…’ It was hard going, for the actors all had their own ideas about their roles—for the most part quite mistaken ideas. It was very, very difficult without seeming rude, to criticize these people, old enough to be their mothers and fathers. And by the time the rehearsal was over the Blue Doors were exhausted with the struggle against inexperience and bad producing.

  And so it went on for several weeks. Lyn was given charge of the adult group, and went to their hall by bus every evening. Vicky had Miss Presto’s school children, and Sandra another group who were doing a musical play.

  The last looked as if it was going to be the most successful, for some of the children had beautiful natural voices, and under Sandra’s tuition they improved daily. The little house at Axminster with Miss Felton and her faithful Lenny was cosy and friendly and they loved to return there at night after a long cold drive home, either by car or bumpy country bus. Constance Felton talked to them a lot about her life and ambitions.

  ‘There’s a wonderful satisfaction in teaching—teaching anything,’ she said one night as they sat over their coffee and sandwiches by the firelight. ‘It’s almost like being a potter—moulding things out of very rough clay.’ She smiled. ‘You probably think that the finished vessels aren’t much to boast about, but although I know that very few of the people in my district, children or adults, have any outstanding dramatic ability, yet I know that since I have been here I have, to a degree, broadened their outlooks by introducing them to the great poets and dramatists.’

  ‘It is wonderful,’ said Lyn, ‘when you’ve been struggling with a scene for hours, and are just at the point of losing your temper and giving the whole thing up, when suddenly—like magic—it all comes right and you feel you could fling your arms around the necks of the whole cast, out of sheer gratitude—’

  ‘If only one of my four companies could get somewhere in the contest,’ sighed Miss Felton.

  ‘Perhaps Sandra’s group will,’ said Vicky. ‘It’s a charming little play.’

  ‘All except that wretched little Terence Godbold with those dreadful adenoids.’

  ‘Yes, did he have to be in it?’ inquired Sandra.

  ‘Well, he looked so angelic,’ said Miss Felton apologetically. ‘No-one else could possibly take the part of Cupid.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sandra, jumping up suddenly. ‘Let’s cut his lines, and make him mime them. It will be quite effective, and save him using that awful voice. Look—where’s the script?’ And they were at work again.

  Lyn had the most tricky job, for the adults were much more difficult to organize than the children. She could never be sure that they would all attend rehearsals, for sometimes one would be working late, another evening someone else’s children would be ill, and on occasions people would not turn up because they were ‘too tired’. After the rigorous discipline of the dramatic school and professional rep., this attitude amazed and infuriated Lyn.

  ‘If they don’t want to rehearse, why do they join in the first place?’ she would demand of the producer, who was a rather trying and fluttery woman called Christabel Skate.

  ‘Well, you see, my dear, they think of it as an amusement, not as a religion, as you and I do.’

  Miss Skate had once toured as a ‘singing lady’ in a Gilbert and Sullivan opera company, many many years ago, and on this count she was considered in the village to be the High Priestess of Drama. Her fringe, and large bun on the back of her head, her jade ear-rings, hand-painted beads and floating chiffon shawls, added to her reputation. Unfortunately, however much she may or may not have known about the stage, she had the unhappy knack of saying precisely the wrong thing to everybody. Her ideas of producing had been gleaned from rather arty-crafty books on the subject, borrowed from the County library, and these ideas she put into practice, regardless of everything. It was said that she once kept Mrs Trevelyan, the butcher’s wife who was more than a little on the plump side, lying for half an hour on the floor of the British Legion hall with a book balanced on her extensive diaphragm, teaching her to ‘breathe properly’, while the rest of the cast hung round fretting and fuming at the waste of rehearsal time.

  As soon as the company got used to the thought of being directed by a ‘slip of a girl’ like Lyn, they welcomed her good sense and tactful approach, and realized that she would be the saving of the play. Miss Skate adored her, and thought that everything she did and said was perfect.

  ‘It is so wonderful,’ she would cry ecstatically, ‘to have someone to talk to who speaks one’s own language. I realize now that I have been starved—mentally, of course—for years.’ But sometimes Lyn would find it very hard to bear Miss Skate’s well-meaning blunders.

  ‘Now just think,’ Lyn would say to one of the actors, concerning some situation in the play, ‘how you would feel if that were to happen to you—in your own life.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Miss Skate would breathe. ‘The Stanislavsky theory—emotion memory, as he calls it…’ And immediately the simple country folk would shy away, frightened by the ‘fancy talk’ and positive that it meant something extremely complicated and beyond them.

  And then there was the matter of Mrs Trevelyan. For some unknown reason she was playing the part of the heroine, a young girl of twenty-one. Now, Mrs Trevelyan was good for forty or more, and no light weight. When Lyn inquired from Miss Skate why Mrs Trevelyan should be playing the heroine the reply was merely a vague, ‘Oh, she always does.’ But from some other members of the company she gathered that Mrs Trevelyan was a very liberal subscriber to the funds of the company, and for this reason it was taken for granted that she should take the chief part in every production. Lyn racked her brains for days to know how to approach Mrs Trevelyan to suggest that she played an older part.

  ‘I keep hoping she’ll fall down and sprain her ankle, or get influenza,’ she confessed to Sandra, ‘but she’s as strong as a horse—and looks like one. Whatever can I do? They just can’t go in for the competition with her playing that part.’

  Then Fate came to Lyn’s aid. An elderly woman who was playing the part of the grandmother went down with jaundice, and immediately there was panic to know how to fill her place.

  ‘I think,’ said Miss Skate, ‘that although I do not feel the part is really me—I shall have to play it.’

  ‘Oh, no, Miss Skate,’ Lynette put in hastily, ‘you are much too valuable as a producer. It is impossible to see a play in the right—the right perspective—if you are also taking part.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The dear girl is so right. How she knows her theatre,’ sighed Miss Skate.

  ‘What we want,’ said Lyn loudly, so that all the rest of the cast could not possibly miss hearing it, ‘is someone with that little extra flair for character. It’s so very much more difficult and interesting a part than a straight one. And the right person in it could steal the show—Mrs Trevelyan!’ she cried, appearing to be struck suddenly by a brilliant idea, ‘how about you? You’re a quick study—I believe that you could save the situation. After all, the part you’re playing now is a very ordinary one, isn’t it? I think you could do wonders for the grandmother.’

  Mrs Trevelyan looked surprised. ‘But what about my part?’

  ‘Oh, little Jennifer could easily slip into that.’ Jennifer was a young girl of sixteen or se
venteen who was at the moment acting as prompter. She looked up hopefully, flushing with pleasure.

  ‘You see, Mrs Trevelyan, anyone can play a straight juvenile, but it takes someone with a little—well—weight to play a character part.’ Although Lyn kept a straight face, she could not help giggling inwardly at her own choice of words. But fortunately Mrs Trevelyan did not see any double meaning in them, and her face brightened.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I think I could manage—if you’re sure it won’t matter my part being given to someone else.’

  ‘No, I think you will be doing us all a good turn by taking over such a tricky part—at such short notice, I mean—I think that the judges at the contest should be informed of it.’ Mrs Trevelyan beamed with pleasure and Jennifer adored Lyn for ever after. Miss Skate enveloped Lyn in an embrace that ground her against rows of hand-painted beads.

  ‘My tactful little creature!’ she cried. ‘Now why can’t poor Christabel handle people like that?’

  Lyn arrived home exhausted.

  ‘I envy you two,’ she said to Sandra and Vicky. ‘You can just say firmly to your kids, “No, you don’t do that part properly,” and give it to someone else, but I have to think up a whole tissue of lies if I want to alter the casting.’

  They were lounging in the dimly lit cottage bedroom that Vicky and Sandra shared, and Lyn was trying to muster enough energy to depart to the divan. Sandra, who sat brushing her hair at the dressing-table, stopped suddenly with the brush still poised in the air.

  ‘I say,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve discovered something.’

  ‘Where?’ the other two demanded in alarm.

  ‘Or rather—somebody. A kid in my play. She wasn’t there the day you saw it, when we first went over. She was away ill, and only turned up last week. Her singing voice is very bad—she only sings in the chorus—but the other day I was trying to make them pronounce the words clearly, and I asked one of them to say the lines of a song that the chorus of Greek maidens has to sing. And she recited several verses in the most beautiful speaking voice—very deep and soft, with only a slight accent that was really an added attraction. And she’s a lovely girl—quite outstanding. Very long dark hair and extremely blue eyes, and fair skin.’