Blue Door Venture Page 18

  In vain he kicked and writhed. By the time the others arrived scarcely any of Lucky was visible. Nigel had to clear them away from the prostrate form to reach the victim.

  He held Lucky by the scruff of the neck and said threateningly, ‘Well, let’s have it! Where’s our money?’

  Lucky was snuffling unashamedly. ‘At ’ome,’ he said. ‘My mum’s lookin’ after it.’

  19

  CURTAIN CALL

  Fenchester station was seething with life. There was a small crowd standing on the platform watching the line, and the photographers from the two local papers were walking up and down importantly with their cameras. Mr and Mrs Fayne, Mr and Mrs Darwin and Mr Halford stood chatting together round the wheel-chair of Mrs Halford, who was flushed with excitement and looking prettier than ever. The Mayor and one or two of the Councillors were having a word with the station-master, inquiring how late the train would be. Myrtle, in a new hat, Terry and Mr Chubb, Ali and Billy, paced up and down impatiently, smiling with relief and excitement, shouting and talking sixteen to the dozen.

  For the Blue Doors had hit the headlines. Nobody quite knew how it had happened, but a reporter had appeared like magic on the scene of the scuffle outside the rehearsal rooms and, scenting an original story, had written them up in several columns of the ‘London Gossip’ page of the evening paper. There was also a very bad photo of them, all looking very dirty and untidy, as indeed they had been at the time it was taken, with all their names in the wrong order underneath so that it read ‘Maddy’ for ‘Bulldog’ and vice versa, much to their indignation.

  There had been a violent exchange of telegrams between the Blue Doors and their parents, and the exiled members of the company, but the most important wire of the lot was the one that Nigel sent to Mr Chubb: Money regained. We open in a fortnight. Begin preparations. Back tomorrow.

  And so now Fenchester was out in full force to welcome them back, and as the train appeared like a toy in the distance, a murmur ran through the crowd and Mrs Halford dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  ‘A bit different from the way we skulked out of the town…’ remarked Nigel, leaning from the window and waving. As they stepped on to the platform there were exclamations of surprise, for never had the Blue Doors looked so smart. Fenchester was used to seeing them off stage in their oldest and untidiest rehearsal clothes. But, true to his word, Nigel had insisted that the first thing they did with the money must be to replenish their wardrobes.

  ‘It’s not extravagant,’ he said. ‘We shall be needing clothes for the coming season.’ So the next day had been a gorgeous ‘squander’, as Maddy called it. And they certainly looked a different collection of beings now. Gone were the slacks and jumpers, the macintoshes and boots. Sandra was wearing a black suit that showed up the fairness of her hair, Vicky had a deep mauve swagger coat, and Lynette a wine corduroy dress and jacket. The boys had compromised by buying new sports coats and pressing up their old trousers.

  ‘We’ll all have new suits when we can get them fitted at leisure,’ Nigel had promised.

  Maddy had come off worst as she had not sold any clothes in the first place. But to keep her happy they had let her have a new hat—a red stockinette monstrosity with a long dangling tassel.

  The parents were the first to reach them, and there was terrific embracing and kissing, and ‘You naughty children!’ exclaimed in loving tones. The photographers flashed their cameras, intent on brightening up the sober pages of the Fenshire papers.

  ‘Good for you!’ cried Nigel to Mr Chubb, as the first thing he saw on the platform was a large bill saying in enormous letters, Blue Door Theatre, Grand Reopening, April 3rd. The Mayor came forward and shook hands with them heartily.

  ‘Trust him,’ murmured Maddy. ‘He knows he’s going to have his money back before long.’ It took ages for everyone to get shepherded into the correct cars and taxis, and when at last they were all packed in, the vehicles were directed to the Halfords’ house where tea for the whole party was to be served in the large lounge.

  After many cakes had been consumed and second cups of tea drained, and no-one had really had a chance to talk sensibly to anyone, Mr Fayne said, ‘Look here—we don’t really know what’s happened at all. I’m sure the newspapers gave a very garbled account of it. Maddy can’t possibly have tripped him up with a skipping rope—’

  ‘I jolly well did!’ said Maddy proudly. ‘Didn’t I? He came a lovely cropper.’ She giggled at the recollection.

  ‘But—how did you get him there?’

  They explained about the decoy advertisement and the rendezvous at the rehearsal rooms.

  ‘And what did you do with him after you caught him?’

  ‘Well,’ said Nigel, ‘I suppose we were rather silly. We ought to have handed him over to the police. But we didn’t. You see we’d met his mother, and she was a sweet old thing—and—well, somehow we just couldn’t. So we made him take us down to Linden Grove where he lives, get the money and hand it over to us. Then we gave him ten minutes to get away, and then rang the police and told them we’d recovered our money and they could do whatever they chose about Lucky.’

  ‘I hope they continue to look for him,’ said Mr Darwin.

  ‘After all, he may go on robbing other companies.’

  ‘I fancy not,’ said Nigel. ‘I think he was quite shaken at being shown that he couldn’t always get away with it.’

  ‘I wonder why he hadn’t spent the money,’ mused Mr Chubb.

  ‘He said he’d been waiting a bit, in case the police had any way of checking up on the notes.’

  ‘Well, they hadn’t. How could they? He might just as well have spent it.’

  ‘Thank goodness he didn’t,’ sighed Lyn. ‘Oh, we have been lucky.’ She smiled contentedly round the room.

  ‘And what are we opening with?’ Mr Chubb wanted to know.

  ‘The show we were rehearsing when we closed down,’ said Nigel, and immediately he and the manager were engaged in a long conference about business details.

  Suddenly Mrs Fayne cried, ‘Maddy—I’ve just thought. What on earth are you doing here? You should be at the Academy still. Term isn’t over yet, surely?’

  ‘Not for another week,’ said Maddy calmly, ‘but Mrs Seymore said I’d better come home too, because I was so excited I wouldn’t be any use for anything for the next week. So I came.’

  Mrs Darwin admired the brand new raw hide suitcases that the Blue Doors had also invested in. She picked one up and said, ‘Oh, they’re very light, aren’t they?’

  ‘Would you like to see what’s in mine?’ inquired Bulldog.

  ‘Yes—it doesn’t feel as though there’s much—’

  ‘There’s not,’ he chuckled. Inside the case when he opened it were three dirty rain-stained out-of-shape hats—one green, one grey, one brown—with sadly drooping brims.

  Ceremoniously, Bulldog picked his up between finger and thumb and dropped it gently into the fireplace.

  ‘Look out,’ cried Nigel; ‘it’ll put the fire out.’ It almost did, and created such a ghastly smoke that the other two boys merely took theirs outside and dropped them into the dustbin.

  ‘Gosh! How wonderful to see the end of those…’ cried Jeremy.

  Mr Chubb was searching through his pockets. ‘I had some telegrams somewhere—ah, here we are…’ He handed three orange envelopes to them. ‘They came to the theatre this morning.’ All were merely addressed ‘Blue Doors’. The first read: Congratulations on the success of your search. Good luck for reopening, Constance Felton. The second read: How dare you walk out on me. You are sacked. Know you’ll be glad, as have read papers. Good wishes, Cowdray. And the last read: Please ring John Blomfield, Theatre Newsletter Programme, BBC, re live broadcast from your theatre.

  Nigel read and reread this several times, then gave a shout of triumph.

  ‘Hey—listen to this!’ He read it aloud.

  ‘Fame at last!’

  ‘Quick!’ cried Maddy. ‘G
o and ring up at once!’ Nigel dashed to the telephone in the hall and dialled Trunks. In the lounge there was a fresh hubbub of excitement. Nigel reappeared at last, flushed and a little dazed.

  ‘It’s all fixed,’ he told them. ‘They want us for the “Curtain Call” item in their programme. You know, it’s a different company every week. They do a bit out of a show—and then are interviewed about themselves. Well, the night we reopen they want to broadcast the last ten minutes of the show, and then interview us for another ten. Isn’t that super?’

  Before he had finished speaking, Mr Chubb was at the phone passing the glad news on to the local papers, and arranging for special bills with ‘Broadcast performance’ across them in large letters.

  ‘Dear Mr Chubb seems to have found a new lease of life since his illness,’ remarked Sandra. ‘Now he’s almost as much of a live wire as Lucky was.’

  ‘Funny…’ remarked Lyn. ‘Do you know, Lucky may have done us a good turn after all. He’s certainly given us a nice little spot of publicity, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Just the sort he would have loved.’

  ‘It means that his little racket is at an end,’ said Bulldog.

  ‘Once we’ve broadcast the story, everyone will recognize the description of him if he ever tries it on again.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t life wonderful,’ sighed Vicky, stretching luxuriously on the couch and looking round the room. ‘And isn’t it heavenly to be home. I’ve never appreciated it so much before.’

  ‘Yes, it’s super,’ agreed Maddy, surreptitiously reaching out a hand for the remaining brandy snap that lay looking lonely on the plate.

  ‘Maddy!’ said her mother, noticing this; ‘you’re not in your own home yet.’

  ‘Let her have it,’ laughed Mrs Halford. ‘If she doesn’t, Bulldog will.’

  Bulldog smiled peaceably. ‘Yes, it’s good to be home to be nattered at again,’ he said.

  By now everyone had outstayed the polite time for an invitation to tea, and eventually the Faynes and Darwins departed, but not before Nigel had announced loudly and joyfully, ‘Rehearsal tomorrow—ten o’clock.’

  ‘What a wonderful prospect—work again,’ sighed Jeremy. ‘I’ll never again grumble at having to rehearse. Not after all those awful weeks of not being an actor, but being a detective—and not a very good one at that.’

  They shouted goodnights up the road as they departed, and then the three houses closed their doors and their curtains, but there were lights in the windows until very late that night as each of the families went over the children’s adventures and thanked heaven for their home-coming.

  The Blue Door Theatre was packed to capacity, with as many people standing at the back as regulations would allow. The opening performance of Granite was approaching its end. The dour drama had been unfolded to a breathless audience that only stirred to applaud at the end of the acts. Lyn was giving the performance of her life, and it looked as if it were going to be the best thing that they had ever done. The news that the tail end of the show was to be broadcast had spread far and wide, so for that performance they could have filled the theatre three times over.

  ‘Silly, aren’t people?’ observed Maddy; ‘when the whole point of the wireless is that people can sit at home and hear things.’

  All day a BBC mobile van had been at the theatre, fitting up mikes and instructing the Blue Doors as to what they were to do. A short script for the interview had been prepared from notes taken down by Mr Blomfield during conversations with the seven of them, and they rehearsed it several times.

  ‘Don’t sound so miserable,’ he kept telling them. ‘This is one of the happiest days of your life, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Lyn. ‘Don’t we sound like it?’

  ‘No. You sound as though you’re at your own funerals. Buck up a bit and talk naturally, like you did when we first met.’ They soon overcame their microphone nerves and began to rattle away like their true selves.

  The parents had been undecided whether to stay at home and listen over the radio, or whether to come to the theatre. Eventually, the Faynes and Darwins came to the theatre and the Halfords stayed at home, as it was easier for Mrs Halford.

  The climax of the play approached, and suddenly a little red light flashed on at the side of the hall. That meant that they were on the air, and that not only Fenchester, but the whole of the world could hear them. It was a terrifying thought, and made Vicky’s throat go dry and croaky. But Lynette began consciously to concentrate on the light and shade in her voice, and not to think so much of her movements. She strived to keep within a sensible range of the mikes, as the BBC man had instructed. And she knew she was being good. There was an admiring glint in the eyes of the other characters on stage as she embarked on a long speech, and in the audience a pin could have been heard if anyone had wished to drop one. Then the end of the play arrived and they were all taking the curtain, bowing and smiling. The applause was immense but it immediately subsided when Mr Blomfield raised his hand. Drawing them into a group round the mike, he read from the script, ‘You have just heard the closing few minutes from the play Granite by Clemence Dane, from the Blue Door Theatre, Fenchester, and now I have pleasure in introducing you to the young artistes, most of them well under twenty, who have performed it. Well, Blue Doors—how are you feeling this evening?’

  ‘Wonderful’—‘Terrific’—‘Glorious’—were their replies as they hastily found their places in the scripts that an assistant was handing them.

  ‘You see,’ continued Mr Blomfield, into the mike, ‘tonight is a very special occasion in the annals of the Blue Door Theatre. And Nigel Halford, the director of the company, and quite an old man compared to the others, will tell you why.’

  Nigel, very hot round the collar, was led to the mike. For a moment of sheer panic he wanted to say, ‘No, thank you. I’d rather go home to bed,’ but then he heard his own voice, clear and assured, saying, ‘A few months ago it looked as if the theatre that we had dreamed of for so many years, and finally opened, was fated to close before it had run for many months…’ And slowly, with many scripted interruptions from the others, the whole story of the Blue Door Theatre was unfolded. At the story of the tripping up of Lucky with the skipping rope, the audience laughed, and the Blue Doors had to pause for a bit until Mr Blomfield signalled them to continue.

  ‘And so, you see,’ Nigel wound up, noting with relief that he was on the last page of the script, ‘everything has come right in the end. With the money retrieved we can pay off our debts and start again. The last few months have seemed long and very trying, but I think we must all admit that they have added to our experience of life, and to our determination to continue with this venture. Don’t you think so?’ he addressed the others.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lyn, ‘although I wish it had never had to happen. Yet I know that I, for one, appreciate the opportunity to have our own company in our own home town all the more for having lost it for a while.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Blue Doors. I feel sure that all the listeners will join with me and the audience here in the theatre, in wishing you every success in the future, and congratulating you on your efforts in the past. Goodbye, Lynette, Sandra, Maddy, Vicky, Bulldog, Jeremy, Nigel and the rest of the company. Goodnight…’

  The red light flashed green, and everyone relaxed as the curtain fell upon more tumultuous applause.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Mr Blomfield. ‘You sounded almost as happy as you look. And the show was magnificent.’ He turned to Nigel, ‘My goodness, you’ve got one little actress who knows what she’s doing, haven’t you?’

  ‘We certainly have,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Can you keep her with you, though?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, you need never want for work, any of you. If ever you get the broadcasting bug, just let me know, and I’ll try and put in a good word for you here and there.’

  ‘That’s jolly kind of you, sir. Come and have some
sandwiches.’

  The parents had brought sandwiches and coffee to be consumed in the dressing-rooms, as they knew it would be ages before their children would be ready to go home. The tiny dressing-rooms were packed with congratulating friends and relations just as at other Blue Door first nights, but tonight the local press was present again, the Director of Education was trying to inquire when they would be able to put on something for school-children’s matinées, and the producer from a theatre in a neighbouring town was trying to discuss a possible exchange system, whereby they would play one fortnight in Fenchester and the next in the other company’s theatre, twenty miles away. But Nigel would not talk business. He threw a quite good-natured temper tantrum.

  ‘I’m not discussing anything tonight,’ he said. ‘Come and see me here tomorrow morning—or else write to me. Too much has happened lately. I’m just a limp rag—can’t think straight.’

  The parents tactfully withdrew, encouraging as many other people as they could to do the same. Ali and Billy cleared up the stage and set it for the next night’s show, and with Myrtle and Mr Chubb and Terry called out cheery ‘Goodnights’ and went home. Only the seven of them were left at last, lazily taking off their make-up in adjoining dressing-rooms. Maddy hummed a little tune. They were all too tired to talk much.

  ‘Doesn’t seem as though we’ve ever left here, does it?’ observed Lyn with a yawn.

  ‘Just like any other first night.’

  ‘Only better,’ said Maddy. ‘Broadcasting and that—’

  ‘It went beautifully,’ sighed Sandra. ‘Think how many thousands of people must have heard it—’

  ‘Think how many people will be writing to ask for jobs—’ shouted Nigel from the next-door dressing-room.

  ‘It’ll be a nice change from us looking for jobs,’ said Vicky.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Sandra, ‘if we’re here for the rest of our lives?’