Part 10 (1/2)
”I love Settle,” Christine said. ”I'll really look forward to it.”
”Good, that's settled then,” I said.
We both laughed out loud.
Winnery Nook Junior School was a modern and attractive building constructed in the same honey-coloured brick as the Infant School which was situated a couple of hundred yards away beyond a large square playground. It had the same low-angled roof of red pan tiles and large picture windows but was certainly not as warm and welcoming.
I parked the car and Christine and I hurried up the path which was glistening with rain in the light of the street lamps. We pa.s.sed a series of large black and white notices: ”Property of Yorks.h.i.+re County Council'; ”Trespa.s.sers will be prosecuted'; ”No public right of way'; ”No dogs allowed on these fields'. Attached inside on the gla.s.s of the entrance door was a further series of requests and instructions: ”All visitors MUST report to Reception'; ”Parents must wait outside when collecting their children'; ”The car park is strictly for the use of school staff only'.
The place sounded as welcoming as a Ministry of Defence shooting range, and the entrance area of the school had the ambience of a hospital waiting-room. A few anaemic prints hung on a pale yellow wall and three hard-backed chairs had been arranged in a line facing them. On a small table were a couple of magazines and an unhealthy-looking spider plant, its green and white shoots trailing to the floor. As we headed for the school hall, following the throng, a freckly-faced boy of about seven ran up excitedly.
”h.e.l.lo, Miss Bentley!” he cried, obviously delighted to see her.
”This is John, Mr. Phinn,” said Christine, turning to me. ”He came up to the Juniors at the beginning of this term and he was one of my star pupils, weren't you, John?”
”Yes, miss,” nodded the child.
We moved out of everyone's way. ”Are you in the play, John?” asked Christine.
”No, miss, there's only a few parts and they went to the older ones. I'm helping with the programmes and stacking the chairs at the end.”
”Oh well,” said Christine, 'there's time enough. You'll probably be in next year's play.”
”I hope so, miss,” replied the child.
”And how do you like the Juniors?”
”Oh, it's all right, miss,” replied the boy unenthusiastically.
When we had taken our seats, the lights dimmed, the hall fell silent and a fat man with pale, fishy eyes strode to the front. This was Mr. Logan, the Headteacher. He waved his hands expansively in front of him, explaining that the evening's performance was a dramatic episode from the well-loved children's cla.s.sic, Anne of Green Gables. He prattled on about there being so few really good Christmas plays suitable for children these days and how he believed in good quality writing, traditional values and high standards. What all this had to do with a school play was beyond me. He then reminded everyone that taking pictures during the performance was prohibited because the flash lights would disturb the actors, that there would be no interval and that there would be a retiring collection to supplement the school fund.
A Christmas production gives a school the opportunity of staging a large-scale dramatic event involving a great many children. It should be a lively, joyous affair, full of colour, music and often dancing, centred on a seasonal theme. I had been in the audience the week before at Willingforth Primary School, and had laughed and cheered with the parents and children at the outstanding performance of ”Scrooge'. All the pupils in the school had been involved in some way.
The evening before I had watched a nativity play at St. Bartholomew's Roman Catholic Infant School. The star of the show had been the Innkeeper, played with great gus...o...b.. a cheeky-faced little boy of six. In front of the curtains on the makes.h.i.+ft stage there was a bed in which the Innkeeper was sleeping. He was suddenly awoken by Joseph banging loudly on the inn door and asking for a room. Each time the Innkeeper clambered into the bed to go to sleep he was disturbed: by the shepherds looking for the baby, by the Three Kings bearing gifts, by a great flas.h.i.+ng star and finally by a host of heavenly angels singing ”Away in a Manger' loudly outside his window. Finally, he had had enough and stamped and stormed across the stage. The curtains had opened to reveal a tableau at the centre of which was a little Mary in blue and Joseph in a dressing-gown, white socks and with a towel over his head, held in place by an elastic belt with a snake clasp.
”What's all this, then?” the Innkeeper had demanded. Mary had held a finger to her lips. ”You'll wake the baby,” she had said. The grumpy Innkeeper had peered angrily into the manger. His face had suddenly changed and a great beaming smile had filled his face. ”Aaaaaahhhhh, he's a bobby-dazzler!” he had exclaimed. ”What a luwerly little baby.”
That evening there were tears in many an eye.
There were only six children in the school production oiAnne of Green Gables. Five of them struggled through the tedious, wordy and overly-sentimental episode, delivering their lines as if reading from a shopping list. In contrast, the lead part of Anne, played by a plump, red-faced girl with protuberant blue eyes, was undertaken with great enthusiasm and confidence. Dressed in a bright blue and yellow gingham smock (rather unsuitable for the time of year, I thought) and sporting huge bunches of hair tied in red ribbons, she dominated the stage. She declaimed her lines in a dreadful mock-American drawl at the rate of a Gatling gun and had the irritating habit of waving her hands in front of her as if conducting some imaginary orchestra. I had seen something similar to this performance before.
The play thankfully came to an end. Soon Christine was surrounded by a knot of excited pupils eager to talk to her. I was content to sit and watch her as she chattered and laughed and ruffled hair, her blue eyes s.h.i.+ning and her beautiful face flushed with pleasure. My reverie was shattered with the appearance of Mr. Logan, accompanied by the large girl who had played the part of Anne.
”Good evening, Mr. Phinn!” he said. ”I trust you enjoyed our little performance?”
”Yes, the children did very well,” I replied, tactfully.
”Mr. Phinn,” the Headteacher informed the girl, 'is a school inspector and he has cast his critical eye over many a school play.” An expectant expression played about the girl's large blue eyes.
”You were very confident,” I said, 'and did very well to remember all those words.”
”I'm auditioning for the lead role in Annie next week,” the child informed me. Annie, I thought to myself. Annie the musical about the wraith-like orphan.
”She goes to drama school every Sat.u.r.day,” announced the Headteacher waving his hands in front of him. ”She's my youngest daughter, is Leanne.”
On our way out, Christine and I caught sight of the pale, slight girl who had delivered the opening lines of the play. She would make a perfect Annie, I thought.
”You were excellent,” I told her.
”You were, Cathy,” agreed Christine. ”Really excellent.”
”I only had a few lines, miss,” replied the child, smiling coyly.
”Ah,” I said, 'but you were the first person to speak and it was you who set the scene. We heard every word clearly, didn't we, Miss Bentley, and if I had an Oscar to award -you know, the prizes that very famous actors and actresses sometimes get well, I would give it to you.”
”That was a lovely thing to do,” said Christine, sliding her arm through mine as we walked down the path. ”And if you only knew what that will do for Cathy's confidence. She was such a shy little thing when she was with me in the Infants.”
”She deserved an Oscar,” I said. ”Anyone who could go on to the stage, before all the other actors, beneath all those bright lights, in front of a hundred people and deliver such ridiculous lines without making one mistake, deserves an Oscar.”
Under a street light, I consulted my programme. ”I wrote down the lines. Do you remember what she had to say?”
”No,” replied Christine, ”I was thinking what an ordeal the whole evening was going to be. What did she have to say?”
I read the lines: ”Is Farmer Hart's farm far from here?”
I can imagine Sidney trying to say those lines after a few Christmas drinks.”
We laughed and laughed all the way to the car.
”So what was Settle like?” asked Sidney. It was the first week back after the Christmas break and a particularly cold and windy morning.
I was certainly not going to elaborate. To do so would have initiated one of his rigorous interrogations about my love life, so I replied curtly, ”Excellent,” and continued to sort through the papers on my desk.
”And was it full of ramblers, scramblers and danglers?”
”Pardon?”
”Hikers, hill walkers and mountain climbers?”
”We didn't go out much,” I replied, putting a file into my briefcase. ”Really? Sounds like you had a very intimate time.” I did not reply. ”And the locket?”
”She loved it.”
”Mmmm, and there was I thinking Miss Bentley was a woman of taste. Did she help you choose that frightful attire?”
”Pardon?”
”Gervase, are you going deaf? Have the icy gusts and wintry gales of Settle resulted in a hearing problem? I asked about that horrendous suit which you are wearing and whether Miss Bentley helped you select it.”
”No, I bought it yesterday as a matter of fact,” I replied. ”Sidney, I really do have to get on. I have an appointment.”