Dot. Araminta Hall

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      Somehow Alice knew not to tell her mother. She didn’t know any other grown-ups properly, certainly nothing beyond polite hellos and isn’t-the-weather-terrible conversations and so she had little to compare Clarice to, but she still knew her mother was odd. For a start she called her Clarice.

      The other parts were soon allotted and they began daily rehearsals, either in the village hall or at Mr Jenkins’s house. Everyone was at least twenty years older than Alice which did make her love scenes with Romeo rather odd, but still she had never felt more relaxed or at ease in her life. The bliss of knowing exactly what you should say from beginning to end, of being allowed to use up all your reserves of emotion on someone else’s life … By the end of the first week she was already fantasising about the drama schools in London that Mr Jenkins said he would help her apply to.

      ‘Is your mother coming to the first night?’ Mr Jenkins asked her one evening, when they were washing up mugs in the village-hall kitchen. Alice had dreaded that question; everyone in Druith knew Clarice Cartwright, whose family had always owned the biggest house in the village, in which Alice and her mother still lived.

      ‘I haven’t told her I’m in the play yet,’ said Alice. She’d never known how to lie but keeping quiet wasn’t the same as lying. If her mother had ever asked her where she got to every afternoon she would have told her the truth in a heartbeat, but Clarice never had.

      ‘Oh but, Alice, you’ve got to. You’re amazing. She’d be so proud.’

      ‘I am eighteen, you know,’ she answered, as if she thought he was worried about permission.

      ‘But everyone will be talking about you. You outshine the others by a mile. You’ll definitely be written about in the local paper. And anyway, where will you tell your mother you’re going every evening?’

      Alice hadn’t thought about this aspect of the whole performance yet, but as soon as Mr Jenkins said it she knew he was right. She finished drying the cups and went home and found Clarice in the garden, sitting under the apple tree drinking tea out of her china cup, set neatly back in its saucer after every sip.

      Alice stood over her mother and said it all as quickly as she could. ‘I have something to tell you. I got a part in the village play, Romeo and Juliet. I’m playing Juliet. That’s the lead role, you know. Mr Jenkins the director says I’m a natural; he says I should go to drama school and become a proper actress. That’s where I’ve been going every afternoon, to rehearse. The opening night is on Saturday and Mr Jenkins thinks you should come.’

      Clarice hadn’t betrayed any emotion during this speech, but Alice was used to that. Her mother took another sip of tea and set her cup back down. ‘Does he now,’ she said finally.

      ‘Well, and of course I’d like you to come as well.’

      ‘I’m surprised that you didn’t tell me about all of this before, Alice.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      Her mother nodded at this. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’ Alice nodded. ‘And you think you could be an actress? On the advice of one failed actor?’

      ‘Failed actor?’

      ‘Mr Jenkins. That’s what he did in London before he came to Druith. Apparently he hardly ever worked until he accepted defeat and came to live here.’

      ‘Oh.’ Alice saw Mr Jenkins’s flourishes and silk handkerchiefs and clapping hands and knew Clarice was right.

      ‘So, you see, he probably doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

      ‘Oh but—’

      ‘Of course I’ll come and see you though. Should I buy a ticket or something?’

      Alice felt as if someone had deflated a balloon in her stomach and she was filled with stale air. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get one for you.’ She turned to walk away, but then stopped, her face flushing with the effort of staying calm. ‘It’s not just Mr Jenkins, you know, they all say I’m good. And I do love it and I think I’m quite good.’

      Clarice smiled but Alice knew better than to trust it. ‘Acting isn’t a suitable profession, Alice. And besides, you’d never manage in London on your own.’

      ‘But will you come and watch before you decide?’

      ‘Of course,’ said Clarice. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

      The play went as well as it could have and Mr Jenkins was right: Alice completely outshone the others, everyone told her she was wonderful and the local paper ran a picture of her on their front page underneath the unimaginative heading of ‘A Star is Born’. Not that Alice cared about any of that, she was so entranced by the sensation of stepping out on to that bright stage each night and looking into a deep, all-consuming blackness that she would have done it even if everyone hated her. The others talked of nerves and stage fright and some even took a shot of whisky before going on, but Alice couldn’t understand that. To her it felt like diving into a cool swimming pool with the sun on her back; she felt her muscles unlock and her head drain of anxiety.

      The play ran for four nights, but Clarice only came once on the first night. She hadn’t come for a drink afterwards, but when Alice had arrived home she’d been sitting up in her chair by the fire and she’d said, ‘Well done, you really were very good.’

      After the last show Mr Jenkins produced two bottles of champagne, which the cast used to toast each other. Alice had never drunk alcohol before but she found it prolonged the floating, buzzing sensation she had so enjoyed on stage. After one glass she said her goodbyes and set off, but Mr Jenkins ran after her and took her arm and made her promise to come and see him the next day so he could tell her which drama schools to apply for and even help her make the calls. She promised that she would, her mother’s words of encouragement ringing in her ears.

      Clarice was in bed when she got home and so she made herself a sandwich and took it upstairs with her, where she spent the night dreaming about larger and larger stages and a deeper and deeper blackness. She woke up happier than she could ever remember feeling and tripped down to breakfast. Clarice was already sitting at the head of the table, buttering her toast.

      ‘Morning, Alice.’

      ‘Morning, Clarice.’

      Alice set to work on her own toast, her legs itching to get to Mr Jenkins.

      ‘So, now that’s over then,’ said Clarice, her gaze resting over Alice’s head and travelling into the garden where Peter, the gardener, was already working.

      ‘What’s over?’

      ‘Your little play.’

      ‘Oh, well, yes.’

      ‘I got you this.’ Clarice slid a white sheet of paper over the table to Alice. It looked like an application form and for a moment Alice’s heart contracted with the unexpectedness of life. Before this minute everything had been over in such short fleeting moments of time, tiny seconds which amounted to nothing, but here was a chance to live a life she understood. She joined the letters on the paper in front of her and saw the words ‘Cartertown Secretarial College, Diploma in Typing’.

      ‘But …’ she started.

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ