Art
Art
They had just four days left before the talent show, which was being broadcast live on national TV. A film crew had already been to the hall, to interview Art and Maggie, and to find out more about Art’s “emotional backstory.” Lydia had filled them in on the plight of the community center, and they’d filmed some really cute footage of the kids from the nursery, playing with Maggie and fluffing their lines.
The act was shaping up nicely. They might actually do this. They just needed to focus. Nursery pickup was in half an hour.
“Lucky,” said Art, “come and sit here.” He gestured at the chair next to him and Lucky sat down. The boy who, just a couple of months ago, had seemed to exist in a different dimension from everybody else. Present, but not connected, like a TV in standby mode.
“I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. You’re a fine actor,” said Art. “And it doesn’t matter a jot if you don’t want to speak. Charlie Chaplin never did, and he was one of the most iconic actors of all time. I’ve not had many speaking parts myself, to be honest.”
Lucky said nothing, and just stared at his feet, but Art was sure he could see the corners of his mouth twitch in a vague semblance of a smile.
A head poked round the door. Ziggy, with Kylie.
“Uh, are we in time for our starring role?” he said. “I left school as early as I could.”
“Yup. We’re just starting another run-through,” said Art from his director’s chair. “Cue music!”
The soundtrack to Mission: Impossible filled the room, and Maggie, dressed in a red polka-dot neck scarf and black eye mask, made her way through a complex obstacle course of tunnels, ladders, and planks, coaxed by Art with pieces of sausage, toward a small fridge with SAFE written on it.
“OK, Zack, you’re on!” said Art. Zack appeared, dressed as a policeman, holding a plastic gun.
“Thief!” he said, pointing at Maggie. “She’s trying to steal the crown jewels!”
“Stop right there!” said Tallulah, also in uniform, brandishing a truncheon.
Maggie, knowing there were treats inside the safe, pulled the door open by grabbing a short rope attached to the handle with her teeth.
Art held his breath. They’d been trying to teach her to pick up the bag filled with plastic jewelry for the past three days, but she’d not managed it yet.
Maggie, smelling the sausage nestled among the jewels, grabbed the bag in her mouth and ran across the stage, chased by the children.
Lucky, the final policeman—with no lines, obviously—tried to block her path, but she, as practiced, ducked straight between his legs. Then, as Ziggy wheeled Kylie across the stage in her pushchair, Maggie dropped the jewels in Kylie’s lap, jumped into the chair, and burrowed under the blanket, where Art had hidden more sausage.
The three miniature policemen looked around for the jewel thief, puzzled, while Ziggy slowly pushed Kylie and Maggie offstage.
The audience rose to their feet, which, in most cases, took a few seconds, some false starts, and several wobbles. It gave a whole new meaning to “stand-up comedy.” They cheered wildly.
“YOU DID IT, ART!” shouted William. Always his greatest cheerleader.
“Maggie did it,” said Art, slightly misty-eyed, as the children crowded around the dog, patting and stroking her. “And the kids, of course.”
Art looked at his friends, thinking what a wonderful thing an appreciative audience was.
A group of men, wearing hard hats and high-viz jackets, as if they were in imminent danger, barged into the room without even knocking.
“Don’t mind us,” they said. “We’ll work around you.”
“What are they doing?” hissed Daphne in Art’s ear.
“Sshhh!” he said as they all strained to listen.
“These are just stud walls, not load-bearing, so they’ll come out easily. We’ll take them down first,” said one of the men, rapping on the internal wall with his knuckles.
“It’s not going to take much to bring down that ceiling,” said another, gesturing up at the gaping hole at the cordoned-off end of the room. “Thank goodness there’s no asbestos.”
“They’re planning our sodding demolition! Before we’ve even left the building,” said William.
The group bustled out of the room, into the nursery next door, leaving a pile of coats, an umbrella, and a stack of A4 paper on the table. They’d barely closed the door before Daphne was leafing through the documents.
“Finances, schedules, measurements, contact lists,” she said.
“I think we need a quick break from rehearsals,” said Lydia. “Anyone fancy a crafting session?”
What was the woman thinking ? They had a community center to save, and the demolition team were, quite literally, on their doorstep. This was no time for crafting .
“I was thinking a little origami ,” said Lydia. And the penny dropped.
“Is that a pair of scissors you have in your bun, Daphne?” said Lydia.
Daphne reached round to the back of her head, then stared at the crafting scissors in her hand, and smiled.
···
By the time the hard-hat brigade returned, everyone was busily at work, trying to appear nonchalant as the men looked around in confusion for their documents.
“Uh, have you seen the stack of papers I left here?” said one. “They’re rather important.”
“Oh, gosh. I am sorry,” replied Lydia. “I thought that was our waste paper for crafting. We always try to recycle, you see.”
“So, where are they?” asked the man.
Art gestured to the table in front of the assembled group of seniors and toddlers, which was covered in a pile of origami swans.