“We’re going to put in some ordinary carrying-on music there, Henry.” “We’ve found some music that we think will do very well for a trotting pony, then you can go back and do it again from where we faded.” “That music won’t do because it’s a walking pony, it’s not nearly vivid enough for one that’s trotting.”
Sorrel and Edward and John, by the time they had gone through their parts twice, began to live them. They met with a thrill of excitement on the beach, and heard from Bill of the queer lights he’d seen on the cliff side, and how he believed it was smugglers, and how he intended to sneak out at night and watch to see what was going on. Sorrel and John then went home to tea with their parents and this was, of course, the place where the cups were clinked, and during tea their father told their mother that he would not after all be able to fish to-morrow because old Bert wanted his boat: there had been lights complained of and the coastguards and wardens would be out having a look.
Robert and Nancy had to ask casually about this and they expected, of course, to hear that the lights had been seen in the cove where they had met Bill; but not at all, it was somewhere quite a long way up the coast. After tea Nancy and Robert had an excited conversation in which Robert made Nancy see how queer and suspicious it was that Bill should see a light in one place and the coastguards and wardens and people should be sent off to another. It looked as if there were funny goings-on somewhere. It was Nancy’s idea that they should take out their ponies and ride over to old Bill’s to see if they could get out of him who it was that had complained about lights. It was not until after they had talked to the coastguard that Robert and Nancy were anxious about Bill. There had been very strong complaints about the lights from a lady who was staying in the hotel. She was a stranger in those parts, and the coastguard might have thought she was just one of those women who were full of spy scares, only she had fetched two other visitors in the hotel to come and look at it, and on the face of it, though Bill himself did not think it was much, he thought they ought to go and sort it out. Then came the really exciting thing. A lady walked up the road and the coastguard casually said, “That’s the lady who reported the lights.” When Robert and Nancy were jogging home again on their ponies they took a short cut and put their ponies to some jumps over some gorse bushes. Nancy got separated from Robert doing this and she had cleared a jump when she saw, to her horror, that she had only just missed jumping on the lady who was staying at the hotel, and who had been sitting behind the gorse bush. The lady, startled, jumped up, and—this was what was so queer—she said: “Ach, Himmel!”
Of course, some of this was to be heard by the listeners as actually happening, and some of it was told by Nancy to Robert, her words falling out over each other in excitement. It was Robert who saw how dangerous this might be for Bill. Just suppose they had run on something, an enemy submarine re-fuelling or anything like that, Bill ought to know; anyway, he ought not to be alone in the cove. He might want help. Sorrel was being Nancy by now and she felt a thrill of fright run through her as she agreed with Robert that the only thing they could do was to go down to the cove and warn Bill to be careful, and since, of course, something really serious might be going on, stay and see what was happening, and, if need be, fetch the police.
There were some other scenes after this and then some effects which were, they were told, an owl hooting and a distant church clock chiming eleven, and then Robert and Nancy crept out of the house and, terrified of every sound, crunched their way across the cove to look for Bill.
Sorrel’s broadcast, when she came to the performance of that first episode, was completely eclipsed as far as home interest was concerned by a family storm. Uncle Francis was, as Alice had told the children, putting on “The Tempest.” He was, of course, to play Prospero and he had engaged a splendid Caliban, about whom he was excited. In the ordinary way when he did a London season he performed two or three plays as a repertory, but this time he had decided to give all his attention to one production, which should be as beautiful as war conditions would allow. All Shakespearean actors have violent views on different plays and parts. Uncle Francis had always had ideas about “The Tempest.” One was that the ideal Ariel would be a child. Now suddenly he had an idea. Miranda should play Ariel. Uncle Francis was the sort of man who expected everybody to do what he wanted. He simply could not believe that anyone would do anything to displease him, and so he thought that when the time came he had only to ask for Miranda to be released from her part in her present play for it to be granted. Unfortunately, he had not waited to ask the management before he had told Miranda. He had told her what he meant to do and that she was to study the part, but she was not, for the moment, to speak about it. That had been three months ago, and in those three months Miranda had lived and dreamed Ariel. Miranda was Shakespeare mad. She was perfectly prepared to play in modern comedies, for she knew quite well that good Shakespeare productions are few and far between, but her ambition was in the big tragic parts; most of all she longed some day to play Lady Macbeth. That before she was fourteen she should have a chance at Ariel was beyond her wildest dreams. She had often asked her father to give her a part and he had always said he did not care for precocious children, she must wait until she was eighteen. When Grandmother had over-persuaded him and Miranda had been allowed to play Sylvia, on the first possible occasion when he was playing near London he had seen her perform at a matinée, and had been full of pride, and that was how he came to think of trusting her with Ariel.
Uncle Francis did not even write a very pleading letter to Miranda’s management; he simply stated that he was putting on “The Tempest” at the end of June and he would like them to release his daughter for the part of Ariel. The management wrote back courteously but very firmly, and said they would not consider it under any circumstances whatsoever; it was then the fur began to fly. Uncle Francis saw Grandmother, Grandmother saw Aunt Marguerite and Grandmother interviewed her management. According to Miriam, who was a grand reporter on an occasion like this, her mother and Aunt Marguerite never by any chance left the telephone.
“If they stop ringing each other up for one second Mum screams, ‘Oh, of course, I know what Marguerite must do,’ or ‘I’m sure I’ve thought of something.’ And there she is, dial, dial, dial. When Dad comes in at night she tells him all about it and she forgets and leaves the telephone off. It doesn’t matter when I’m up because I hear it howl and put it back on its rest, but goodness knows who does it when I’m in bed.”
It took ten days, during which Uncle Francis fought passionately and tried everything including the use of lawyers, before it was finally accepted that Miranda was not going to be released. She had made a success, her management wanted her and were keeping her. It was then that Grandmother had her brilliant idea.
“I quite realise that it’s not at all the same thing to you, Francis, because naturally you wanted your daughter, but, fortunately, you have a niece who also has Warren blood and who also is very promising.” She saw that Uncle Francis was going to argue, so she spoke in her firmest and most settled kind of voice. “Sorrel shall play Ariel.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ARIEL
It was the day after Sorrel’s first broadcast. Hannah, when Sorrel came back from the Academy, told her that she was to sit up in her dressing-gown to see Grandmother when she came back from the theatre. Nothing like that had ever happened before and the children were wild with curiosity to know what Grandmother could want to see Sorrel about.
“I expect she didn’t like your broadcast,” said Holly. “I expect she was sorry that she borrowed somebody’s wireless set and had it in her dressing-room. I can’t think why she shouldn’t like it because we thought you were awfully good, didn’t we, Mark?”
The only wireless set in the house belonged to Alice and lived in the kitchen. Mark and Holly had been allowed to leave the Academy early, for as Sorrel was going to the B.B.C., there would be no one to take them home and Hannah would have to fetch them. By
arrangement with Hannah they were back in plenty of time to hear the broadcast. They had sat round the table in the kitchen expecting to be thrilled at hearing Sorrel’s voice. Actually they found the story so exciting that they had clean forgotten that Sorrel was Sorrel and thought she was Nancy. Mark tried to explain this.
“It wasn’t till this morning that I remembered it had been you, and that was odd because that girl, Nancy, rode a pony and you can’t.”
If the children had to do stage work, then, from Hannah’s point of view, let them appear in the Children’s Hour for the B.B.C. At the vicarage her favourite listening had been the Children’s Hour. She approved of everything about it, especially the short services. She considered Uncle Mac what she called “a good Christian gentleman,” and she was sure no harm could come to Sorrel from mixing with the likes of him. “Of course, what I’d fancy for you,” she said, “would be to take a part in one of those Bible stories, but that would mean acting on a Sunday and I couldn’t think that right.” Then she looked muddled. “Not but what it makes very suitable listening to, so maybe somebody ought to do it. But I don’t think it is anything to do with that your Grandmother wants, certainly not in a complaining way, for Alice told me on the quiet that it was a bit of good news. Your Grandmother sent for me before she went out this afternoon. ‘Hannah,’ she said, ‘I wish to see Sorrel when I come in to-night.’ ‘What!’ I said, ‘that’ll be after nine, and Sorrel will have been in bed an hour and a half.’ Then your Grandmother made one of those tittering noises she makes when she’s impatient and said,’ I’ll see her in her dressing-gown.’”
Because she was sitting up to see Grandmother, Sorrel had a special supper with Hannah in the kitchen. There was a recipe that Hannah had heard given out on the wireless for making a sort of scrambled egg with powdered egg and onion and cheese.
“A bit indigestible,” said Hannah, “but it’ll have time to settle before you’re in bed.”
Sorrel was sitting on the kitchen table.
“I do wish I knew what Grandmother wanted. Even though you say it’s going to be good news I can’t help feeling as though I was waiting to go into the dentist’s.”
Hannah never seemed to know when she was telling something really important. Important things dropped out of her mouth in just the same tone of voice as when she said “That was ever so nice a bit of meat I got from the butcher this week” or “I’ve been round to see that shoe-mender again and he’s promised Mark’s shoes by Thursday without fail.” She was at the stove, stirring the scrambled egg.
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was something to do with your school. That Madame that teaches you and that Miss Jay came here this afternoon.”
Sorrel shot off her chair and came over to the stove.
“Hannah! And you’ve known that ever since we came in and you never told us!”
“I didn’t know you’d be interested. That Madame looked ever so comic, I thought.”
Sorrel paid no attention to Hannah’s views on Madame. She caught her arm.
“What did they come about? Didn’t you hear anything?”
Hannah was puzzled at Sorrel’s eagerness.
“No. I’ve got more things to do than to wonder why your teachers come round. I’ve got ever such a lot of washing and mending. Holly’s torn a great jagged piece right out of those rompers that she was given for her dancing.”
Sorrel went back to the table. If only Alice were in! Alice was never muddled about what was important and what was not. Rows of ideas rushed through her mind. Alice had said it was good news. Of course, Alice was probably right, but just suppose she was wrong. Nobody knew it, but she was not quite clear in her conscience. She had felt that everybody was pleased with her about the broadcast and she had been rather proud this morning; and Miss Jones had said to her during arithmetic, when she had answered a little rudely: “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Sorrel. It’s not like you to speak like that.” Later, when she had asked somebody to bring up something for her from the cloak-room when they went down, one of the girls had said: “You want a lot of waiting on to-day, don’t you? You know, you’re not the only person who ever broadcast.” Neither what the girl had said nor what Miss Jones had said had until this minute made much impression on her, for she had felt important and thought other people ought to think her important too. Now a fearful doubt crept into her mind. Had Madame and Miss Jay come to see Grandmother in order to say, “If Sorrel gets cocky about anything she does, perhaps we had better not let her take another part?”
Alice came down to fetch Sorrel. Sorrel had, of course, heard Grandmother come in and was waiting at the top of the stairs that led up from the kitchen. Alice gave her an unexpected kiss.
“Run along up. You’re to go straight in while I get our supper.”
Grandmother was in her drawing-room. She came home from the theatre in a hired car and did not bother to take off her make-up until she got back, so she was looking more like Grandmama on the stage than Grandmother in real life. She was sitting in an armchair. She held out a hand to Sorrel.
“Come here, granddaughter. You have, of course, heard all about Miranda playing Ariel in her father’s production. Well, the management won’t release her, and so I have told your Uncle Francis that he’s to try you in the part.”
Sorrel felt as if the drawing-room was turning upside down.
“Me! But I couldn’t!”
Grandmother, which was unlike her, thought a moment before she answered.
“No actress should say that about any part, but possibly on this occasion you’re right. Your Uncle Francis is, in my opinion, a pompous ass of an actor, but then I’ve always thought Prospero was a pompous ass of a man, therefore it’s never been any surprise to me that your uncle’s considered superb in the part. I, fortunately, have never had the misfortune to see him play it. In the early days of their marriage your Aunt Marguerite played the part of Miranda, and that, I knew, could be nothing but a disaster, so I saved myself from suffering and kept away from the theatre.” Her voice changed. “All the same, whatever my private opinion may be, your uncle is considered an extremely fine Prospero, and it’s been his dream to put on a splendid production of the play. One of the difficulties has been to find a good Caliban. You know the play, I suppose.”
“No. I’ve heard about it lately, of course, because of Miranda, and I know Miranda got her name from that play, but we haven’t done it yet at school.”
“Well, Prospero, pompous fellow, lived on an island with his tiresome daughter, Miranda. He had magic powers and made creatures his slaves; one of these was Caliban, a strange, sub-human creation, and the other was what Shakespeare calls an airy sprite. That’s Ariel. What Shakespeare meant I’ve no idea, but I can see what your Uncle Francis thinks he meant. From Caliban he wants a monstrous, grovelling creature hardly human at all, entirely of the earth; and from Ariel something that’s got nothing to do with the earth at all. He sees Ariel as neither a man nor a woman, a creature of light and air and spirit, and to get this effect he thinks he needs a child. That’s why he wanted Miranda, who speaks blank verse so exquisitely.”
“But I don’t!” Sorrel exclaimed. “I’m getting on quite well, Miss Jay says, but it’s only my third term and we didn’t learn that kind of elocution at Ferntree School.”
“Naturally, I know exactly how far you’ve got. I saw Madame Fidolia and your Miss Jay this afternoon. Miss Jay said that you have a natural gift for verse speaking, that you have rhythm and that you have a quite nice singing voice, and that’s important, because Ariel has a song.”
“Oh, goodness!” said Sorrel. “A song, too! He—I mean she—I mean it—doesn’t dance as well, does it?”
“Never still for a second,” said Grandmother. “Every step a dance, every movement an inspiration. You’ll see what your uncle wants when you get to rehearsals.” She patted Sorrel’s hand. “Don’t look so scared, child. Exactly two things can happen to you, and neither would mean the end of t
he world. You will, of course, be rehearsing on approval, and your uncle may refuse to let you play the part, or you may be allowed to play the part and get quite appalling notices. Appalling notices are unfortunate for anyone, but at the age of twelve they are unlikely to ruin your career. Now, run up to bed, child; you should be transported into the seventh heaven of happiness by what I’ve told you. What an opportunity!”
Sorrel went down to the kitchen where Alice was cooking Grandmother’s supper. Alice grinned at her from the stove.
“That’ll teach you, Miss Can’t-do-it. I said to Hannah we should see you coming in looking like a wet week.”
Sorrel had almost lost her voice.
“But, Alice, you can see I can’t do it, can’t you?”
Alice had no patience at all with faint hearts.
“Oh, run along up to bed! You’ve got a chance that hundreds of children would give their eyes to have, and you stand their with eyes like a frightened cow, saying ‘Oo-er, Alice, I can’t.’ You make me sick. You’ve got Warren blood in you, haven’t you? You are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you? Well, run along up to bed and before you get into it say fifty times, ‘I can do it if I try, I can, I can, I can.’”
Sorrel’s rehearsals were to begin on the following Monday, and since it was term time and she could not be allowed to be free of lessons, it was arranged that Miss Smith was to teach her with Miranda; the lessons were to be taught in the wardrobe of the theatre in which Sorrel was rehearsing. Sorrel dreaded them. Bolstered up by Alice and conscious of Grandmother’s scorn if she showed any fright, she was managing to pretend that she had some confidence in her acting, but she could not even pretend she looked forward to doing lessons with Miranda. To begin with, anybody would be sorry for Miranda, who had lived and dreamt of playing this part, and it was bad enough not to be going to play it; but to have your younger cousin given it in your stead would obviously be simply frightful. Then, Miranda was not the sort of person who liked her life upset for other people. At the moment, she and Miss Smith were doing lessons comfortably in her own schoolroom, and now, instead, she was expected to turn out after breakfast and go round to a theatre to do lessons in a wardrobe for the convenience of the cousin who had taken her part. Whatever way you looked at it the arrangement was a pretty mean one for anybody, and it would be an extraordinarily nice girl who could be pleasant about it. Miranda might be a lot of things, but “nice” was not a word you would ever use about her. Sorrel shuddered whenever she thought of lessons on Monday.