Theatre Shoes

  There was a large linoleum-floored room, which had been the nursery, for Hannah and Holly and a small room at the end of the passage for Mark. Neither room was in at all good condition, the walls looked dirty and such furniture as there was badly needed paint. Alice was apologetic.

  “Looks a bit off, but I had to scratch round and find what I could.”

  Mark was not fussy, but he was hurt that so little preparation had been made for his coming.

  The bed was iron and instead of an eider-down there was a plaid rug. It had once had J.W. embroidered on it, but the embroidery threads had broken with age and half the stitching was gone. There was no proper cupboard, only a curtain which had once had a silky pattern on it, but with use almost all the silk pattern was gone and only the cotton threads which had held the design were left. There were no books and no pictures. The only curtains were the blackout ones. Mark went to the window. It looked out on a narrow street at the back of the house. It was one of those streets you find in towns which seem to have nothing in them but the backs of places and storehouses. This street, too, was very battered looking. A black cat was the only living thing to be seen. Mark turned his face entirely to the street and made fearful faces at the cat.

  Hannah glanced at Sorrel, they both knew how Mark was feeling, but they knew, too, that since they could not alter things it was not much good saying anything. Instead Hannah turned to Alice.

  “When are they seeing their Granny?”

  Alice too had her eyes on Mark; she seemed glad to be interrupted, for she pounced on the question and answered it in an unnaturally gay voice.

  “As soon as we’ve had a drop of Rosy.” Hannah looked enquiring. “Lee. Tea. You’ll soon get used to old Alice.”

  “I’ll get some things up, then.” Hannah struggled hard to sound as bright as Alice, but her eyes kept turning to Mark, and as well she was thinking of the old nursery. She did not mind the linoleum, but in the nursery too there were no real curtains, only black-out, and though there was a cupboard, it was meant for toys and there was nowhere to hang anything. She knew she had not sounded as cheerful as she had intended to, so she added, “Come on, Holly dear, you come and help Hannah,” and then, to make sure nobody thought her spirits were low, she went along the passage singing, “Pleasant are Thy Courts above,” only she sang it properly, without adding any words of her own, which was so unlike her that anybody who knew her would have guessed there was something wrong.

  Sorrel scratched one leg with the top of her shoe. She was so sorry for Mark that it hurt inside, but she knew he would not like his misery pried on, especially as he was doing his best not to show he was miserable. She spoke as if she were only that minute noticing the room.

  “This room looks pretty drab. I’ll get that eider-down from mine, it’ll cheer it up a bit.”

  Mark sounded as if he were being strangled.

  “No.”

  “It’s not fair I should have such a nice room when you’ve got a foul one.” She saw she was doing no good and that the only thing that could possibly help was to find something to admire in the room as it was. It was then she noticed the rug. “I say, I wonder whose rug this was? The W will be Warren, of course, but who was J? Alice said our uncle was called Henry. Oh, I say, when she was talking about who we were like she said there was a Sir Joshua. I wonder if it was his rug. I bet it was. I say, you are honoured.”

  Mark was not to be fooled by a tale like that, but Sorrel mentioning Sir Joshua did him good. One emotion can cancel another, and all in a flash Mark stopped feeling miserable and was angry instead. He turned round, his face pink.

  “That old Sir Joshua! I’d rather have nothing on my bed than anything of his. I’m like our father, I don’t want there to be anything Warrenish about me. Mean sort of stuffy people.”

  Sorrel nodded.

  “Never to see our mother because she had the sense to marry father.”

  “And when she does see us to put us into rooms that would be much too shabby to give to a dog that had distemper.” Mark hung on the other end of the bed and looked across at Sorrel. “Do you know what I think? I’m going to hate our grandmother. Hate, hate, hate her!”

  Alice hurried up the passage. She had a comb in her hand.

  “Come on, dears, you’re not having your Rosy yet, you’re to go down right away.”

  Sorrel straightened up.

  “Where to?”

  Hannah began unplaiting Sorrel’s hair.

  “Where to? Where do you expect? Down the old apples and pears to be received by the great actress, Margaret Shaw. In other words, your Granny.”

  CHAPTER IV

  GRANDMOTHER

  The whole of the first floor was one big room. There were sliding doors to turn it into two rooms, but when the children first saw the drawing-room the doors were open. Because it was summer-time and there were windows both ends of the room there was a lot of light streaming in, but somehow, in spite of this, the effect was dim like the inside of a cathedral. It was in a way the grandest room the children had ever seen. Two great chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The curtains were crimson silk. There were three large statues that looked as if they ought to be in a park. The sofa was piled with violent-coloured cushions and, as well, a gay embroidered piece of Chinese silk. There was a great deal of furniture, all different and all rather big. There were several portraits on the walls. On every table and shelf, and behind glass in two cupboards, were ornaments—silver, gold, porcelain, jade—enough to stock the window of one of those sort of shops which says that it specialises in gifts. As well, on every table, there were photographs in silver frames. On the floor and over some of the chairs were thrown fur rugs. In spite of the amount of things about and the rich colours the drawing-room, just like the rest of the house, looked shabby. The curtains were dusty and threadbare. The carpet had places where it was wearing thin. A spider had made a web across the frame of one of the portraits. The room had the smell of very old books which have got a little damp.

  Of course the children did not see all the things in the room straight away. Each of them saw bits, they all smelt the old book smell, and they were all impressed with the grandeur, and Sorrel and Mark as well saw some of the shabbiness. It was that quick seeing things and feeling things which comes in the first second in a new place, for there was no time to stare about, for under the window was a chaise-longue, and lying on it was grandmother.

  The children had not before seen a grandmother of their own. Their Forbes grandmother had died before they were born. If they had imagined their mother’s mother at all it was just to suppose she would be bent and grey like grandfather. What they saw was so different from this picture that for a second they lost their manners and just gaped.

  To begin with grandmother did not look old. She had dark hair piled up in curls on the top of her head, held in place with combs. She had bright sparkling dark eyes. She was wearing something made of mauve velvet that might have been a dress with loose sleeves, or a dressing-gown of a grand sort. She was sitting upright against a jade-green brocade cushion; she had thrown across her knees a Spanish shawl with crimson and orange coloured flowers embroidered on a white background. Perhaps because the drawing-room lighting was dim, or perhaps because of all the colour on and around grandmother, it was as if she were a tree with flaming leaves in a wood where all the other trees were dark green.

  Grandmother held out a hand.

  “Come here, children.” Sorrel had to nudge Mark and pull Holly by the hand. They came slowly up to the couch. All the time they were walking grandmother’s eyes darted from one child to the other. When they were within touching distance she gave a nod. “That’s better, now I can see you.” She fixed her eyes on Sorrel. “You are very like your mother.”

  Sorrel swallowed nervously.

  “So Alice said.”

  Grandmother was examining Mark.

  “Alice is a good creature but she talks too much. Good gracious, boy, you are pure Warren!
Extraordinary! Sir Joshua must have been the image of you when he was a child.”

  Sorrel could see Mark getting red. She nudged him with her elbow. The nudge was meant to say, “Please, please don’t argue,” but you cannot do much with an elbow. In any case Mark was past nudges. He was scowling horribly.

  “As a matter of fact, if you are interested to know, I’m the absolute exact image of my father, and he was the absolute exact image of my great-grandfather, who was an admiral, not just an actor.”

  There was silence for a moment. Sorrel, twisting her hands nervously, stared at grandmother wondering what she would do. Mark, still scowling but with his chin in the air, looked as if what he hoped was coming was a further fight. Holly had seen a green-jade horse-like animal on a little table and was thinking how she would like to have it to play with.

  Grandmother’s face expressed nothing. Her dark eyes bored into Mark, but it was impossible to judge if she was angry. Then suddenly, with one big sweeping movement, she tossed aside the Spanish shawl and got off the chaise-longue.

  “Come with me.” As she spoke she propelled Mark across the room. Sorrel and Holly followed behind.

  The portrait hung at the far end of the room. It had special electric lights in the frame to show it up. Sir Joshua had been painted as King Henry the Fifth in Shakespeare’s play. He stood sideways, his head lifted, a light on his face, his armour gleaming against darkness. His head was uncovered and his dark hair somehow faded into the night background.

  The last thing Sorrel meant to do was to take sides with Grandmother against Mark, but she had spoken before she could stop herself.

  “It is just like Mark.”

  Grandmother flung out her arms, her velvet sleeves hung down like banners.

  “A largess universal, like the sun

  His liberal eye doth give to everyone

  Thawing cold fear.”

  She used a big, magnificent sort of rolling voice. Holly, who had not before seen anyone recite with gestures except in a classroom, thought Grandmother was being funny. She laughed. She had a nice laugh, it had a gayness about it which made other people laugh too. It did not make Grandmother laugh, but it stopped her reciting. She fixed her whole attention on Holly.

  “Come here, child.” Holly came to Grandmother and looked up at her hopefully in case she was going to be funny again. “That’s a beautiful laugh. Study it. Keep it. It will be invaluable to you.”

  Sorrel looked despairingly at Mark. Had he understood what Grandmother meant? Holly had not bothered to try and understand. She caught hold of one of Grandmother’s hands.

  “Could I play with that green horse over there?”

  The green horse seemed to bring grandmother back to ordinary things. She gave Holly permission, flicked off the lights round Sir Joshua’s portrait and went back to her chaise-longue. She pulled the Spanish shawl over her and smiled at Sorrel and Mark.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit? Now, tell me, is everything upstairs exactly as you like it?”

  Sorrel wanted to laugh. It was such sauce to talk like that, seeing what two of the bedrooms were like. She managed to hold her laugh back by turning away and pulling up a chair. Mark was not a boy who let anything pass very easily and he certainly was not going to let grandmother suppose he was pleased. He was by the foot of the chaise-longue. He played with a bit of the fringe of the shawl.

  “Do you think mine’s a nice room?”

  Grandmother leant over to a box on the table beside her and took out and lit a cigarette. Then she leant back, waving her cigarette in the air, and quoted in her grand way:

  “Two old chairs, and half a candle,

  One old jug without a handle.”

  They knew their Edward Lear, but this quotation so exactly described what Sorrel and Mark thought of his room, and at the same time was so much ruder about it than they would ever have dared to be, that they were speechless. Holly was lying on her face pushing the jade horse across the carpet. She did not mean to be rude, but she just spoke out loud what she was thinking.

  “But Mark doesn’t live in a wood, nor he isn’t a Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.”

  Grandmother did not seem to have heard her.

  “It shall be altered, dear boy. Just give shape to your wishes. Carpets from Persia. Hangings from China. The bed on which a Borgia slept.”

  Sorrel tried to help Mark.

  “It is not those sort of things, though of course the carpet from Persia would be nice; there isn’t one, you know.”

  “No carpet! Extraordinary! To-morrow everything shall be altered.” She broke off, remembering something. “Has Alice told you about to-morrow?” She looked at Sorrel but Mark answered.

  “No.”

  Grandmother took a deep breath of cigarette smoke.

  “To-morrow you are being seen by one of the finest teachers this world has ever produced.”

  “What does she teach?” Sorrel asked.

  “Everything. Voice control. Poise. Diction. Dancing.”

  Sorrel gaped.

  “And arithmetic and grammar and Latin?”

  Grandmother waved a hand as if arithmetic and grammar and Latin were made of smoke and could be blown away.

  “Those too, I believe.”

  Sorrel had an awful feeling that grandmother was not quite real, or at least that she was living apart from real things.

  “Is it a school?”

  “Certainly it’s a school. The best school. I shouldn’t dream of allowing my grandchildren to attend any other.”

  “Does Mark go with us, or is his different? I mean, diction and dancing aren’t so usual at a boy’s school, are they?”

  “Certainly Mark goes. Mark more than anyone. Sir Joshua may live again.”

  Sorrel tried not to sound desperate but she did not succeed.

  “What’s this school called?”

  Grandmother took a deep breath. The words came out of her mouth as if they were beautiful in themselves, which to Sorrel and Mark they certainly were not.

  “You are going to Madame Fidolia’s Children’s Academy of Dancing and Stage Training.” She stubbed out her cigarette and waved a dismissing hand. “Take them upstairs, Sorrel dear. I shall see nobody else to-day.” To prove this she shut her eyes and pulled the Spanish shawl over her face.

  CHAPTER V

  BEES AND HONEY

  The children ran up the stairs. As soon as they were out of reach of a whisper being heard they stopped.

  “If the school’s for stage training, do you think it means we’re going to be taught to be actresses and you an actor?” Sorrel asked Mark.

  Mark scratched at a hole in the carpet with his toe.

  “They can teach me what they like, but if they think I’m going to be like that awful Sir Joshua they couldn’t be wronger.”

  Sorrel leant on the banisters.

  “I don’t think you can go to a stage school. You’re going to be a sailor.” She glanced down at Holly, who had seated herself on a step of the stairs. “Oh, Holly, you’ve taken that horse!”

  Mark kicked more violently at the hole.

  “A jolly good thing, too, I should say. Sitting in there with so much of everything that she simply can’t breathe while people like us haven’t even a carpet.”

  “She said you could have one to-morrow,” Sorrel reminded him.

  “Hullo there, coming up for your Rosy?”

  There was no doubt that having Alice about was a help. Everything seemed more ordinary with her around. They hurried up to her. Sorrel got there first.

  “Did you know we were going to a stage school?”

  “At least that’s what she thinks,” said Mark.

  Alice looked severe.

  “‘She’ is the cat’s mother; didn’t anyone tell you that?”

  Holly held out her horse.

  “Look!”

  Alice clicked her tongue against her teeth.

  “Oh dear, we won’t half make a scene when we find that’s gone. Give it
to Alice, ducks; I’ll just slip it back before it’s missed.” She saw that Holly looked as if she might cry. “You run up and see what we’ve got for tea. Something Hannah says is a treat you haven’t had since ever so long.”

  Hannah was laying the tea on a round table in the nursery. They knew what the surprise was before they saw her because she was singing, “Come, let us gather at the river. The beautiful, the beautiful river. What sh—all I put the shrimps on?”

  There is something about shrimps for tea. You can’t really feel miserable taking the heads and tails off shrimps, especially when for years you have never seen the sea, let alone a shrimp. They started heading and tailing right away and were talking hard when Alice came back from returning the horse to grandmother.

  “Did you get it back without her noticing?” Sorrel asked.

  Alice sat down. There was rather a funny expression on her face.

  “Practice makes perfect. Anyway, we had the shawl over our meat pies.”

  Mark bounced in his chair.

  “Eyes! Meat pies means eyes; is that right?”

  “You be careful,” said Alice; “get much sharper and you’ll cut yourself.”

  Hannah passed Alice a cup of tea.

  “Is that right what the children are saying, they are going ‘on the stage’?”

  Alice laughed.

  “Chance is a good thing! They’re starting their training to-morrow; that’s right. At least that’s what was planned, but what we’re going to do for bees and honey I don’t know.” She looked at Mark. “I’ll tell you that one, son, because it’s a funny day you don’t hear me talk about it. Bees and honey means money.”

  Sorrel looked up from her shrimps.

  “But we’ve always been at schools; I suppose they all cost about the same, don’t they?”

  Hannah broke in quietly.

  “We don’t want to spoil our shrimps talking about things like that.” She watched Mark help himself to margarine. “That’s your grandmother’s and Alice’s ration, so go carefully now.” She turned in a person-at-a-party way to Alice. “I’ve got what’s left of our week’s rations in the box I’ll give you afterwards. I must go to the Food Office about our change of address to-morrow.”