Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
It had snowed again in the night and Little Beck Foss positively sparkled on Friday morning as Harriet made her way to school. The huge Christmas tree outside the theater had fully come into its own now that its bauble-laden branches were also slathered in thick white snowflakes. The newly restored glass doors at the front of the theater were open, and she could see the frenetic activity inside, hammering and sawing sounds drifting down the path toward her, and she suddenly wished she were headed in there instead of to work.
Her phone rang as she reached the school grounds. It was Emma. She swished at the powdery snow on a low wall and sat down.
“Hello you, what are you up to?” she asked.
“I’m getting ready to take my parents Christmas shopping,” Emma replied.
“Cripes. Good luck with that.”
“We’re taking the train, which means I can drink a bottle of wine at lunch to ease the pain.”
Harriet laughed.
“I’d rather be spending the day with your parents than at Foss.”
“Blimey, work must be bad! Listen, I need to book you up in advance. I’ve been working on a marketing campaign for a small vineyard down south who want to expand their sales reach into the north—sustainability, vegan wines and smaller carbon footprints, et cetera…”
“What an eco-warrior. You are to booze what Greta Thunberg is to the rest of the planet.”
“I know, there’ll be a special place in wine heaven for me. Anyway, my campaign caught the eye of an art gallery in Penrith, and they’ve ordered a few crates for their upcoming exhibitions. As a thank-you-slash-bribe the winery has acquired a couple of tickets for me to the opening night of an up-and-coming young artist’s exhibition next Thursday to take some pics for their website. Fancy it?”
“Who’s the up-and-coming artist?”
“No idea.”
“Doesn’t Pete want to go?”
“I haven’t asked him. I’m asking you. Pete’s had nonstop Christmas dinners with clients for the last fortnight; he can stay home and give his cholesterol levels a break.”
“I’ll be at the theater.”
“Leave a bit early! I’ll pick you up from there at half seven. Even you are allowed to take an evening off.”
“I’ve got so much to do—”
“Which is exactly why you should come out with me. It’s not good for you to spend every single night in your Scroogy flat working till your eyeballs fall out.”
“If I don’t work until my eyeballs fall out, I’ll get behind. And my flat is not Scroogy.”
“It is too. The only excuse I’ll accept is if you’ve come up with a cunning plan to seduce James that night.”
Harriet snorted. “I have not. He wants to take things slowly. He is determined to get to know me better first. He used the word ‘meaningful.’?”
“What a bastard.”
“Right!”
“So come with me. It’s just one night. I’ll drive, you can drink free wine, and we’ll look at some art and get cultured.”
“Like kombucha.”
“Yes, and kefir.”
“All right, I could do with a change of scenery.”
“Yay! That was way easier than I thought it would be. I had a whole layered strategy of guilt and emotional blackmail ready.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to use it anyway? I promise to react receptively.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said in a voice laden with mock weary. “I’ll bank it and keep it for next time. Waste not, want not.”
“And that is why you are the queen of sustainability.”
Eight hours later, Harriet banged the snow off her boots and pushed through the theater doors to be greeted by smells of fresh paint and sawn wood. The lobby renovations were almost complete. The plaster moldings on the ceiling had been painted back to their original white, and now a woman in a blue boilersuit stood on top of a scaffold tower painstakingly applying gold leaf to the ivy and the edges of the rose petals.
“Good afternoon to you, Harriet!” Ken called as he trotted down the staircase. “Or should I say good evening, it never feels right to me that night falls before teatime in the winter. Still, this too shall pass and before you know it there’ll be Easter eggs in the shops.”
She smiled. “Hi, Ken, how’s your day been?”
“Not too bad. I’m doing the late shift today, so I spent the morning with my grandkids. Ooh!” He held up his hand. “I’ve got something for you, wait a mo.” He disappeared through one of the doors behind the box office and came back wearing a big grin and carrying a large canvas tool bag, which he handed over to her.
It was heavy, and when she looked inside her heart grew two sizes. It was full of paintbrushes and fat tubes of black and brown acrylic paint.
“You are an angel!” she squealed, dropping the bag and reaching her arms around the burly man to hug him.
“Get away with ya.” He laughed good-naturedly as she released him.
“Leo’s going to be delighted,” she gushed. “They all are. Thank you!”
“Aye, well, those that work hard deserve a helping hand in my book. Speak to Caz, she’s working in the cocktail lounge this evening; she’s got a load of paint for you. We had a bit of a scout around the warehouse last night, there’s always paint left over from jobs. It’s mostly half tins, odds and sods, and I can’t vouch for the colors, but they’re yours if you want them.”
“This is…” She couldn’t find her words; they seemed to be circling her heart in a dance of gratitude. “Thank you, Ken. This means such a lot. It’s a huge help, I really appreciate it.”
“Well, you know what they say,” he said as he began to stride away. “It takes a village!”
It certainly does!
The snow had triggered high spirits in the group. Everyone was feeling particularly festive, even more so after Harriet had given them the gift from Ken. Leo was wearing a Rudolph jumper with a glittery red pompom nose under a pair of paint-splattered tartan dungarees and had dyed his hair holly green. He was kneeling on a length of backcloth, drawing a giant replica of his sketch of Mr. Fezziwig’s Christmas party.
“We have also been gifted some tins of paint. It should be enough for us to get started, at least,” said Harriet as Billy and the others inspected the bag of brushes.
“Can I paint too?” asked Sid, who was spending the evening with them because Arthur had a hospital appointment. Harriet tried not to be worried; it was normal for older people to have niggling health problems, it didn’t mean anything.
“Course you can, Sidney!” Leo ruffled the boy’s hair, and Sid grinned like a chimpanzee.
“It’s still a lot to do, though,” said Billy, eyeing the other eleven rolls of fabric stacked up nearby.
“Well, we may have some help with backdrops and other things if we’re lucky. Remember Hesther, the woman who popped in yesterday? She runs a group for refugee women and they’re going to be sharing the theater with us. They are keen to be involved with the behind-scenes stuff.”
“That’s so cool,” said Isabel.
“I think I know who they are,” said Ricco. “They helped out sometimes at the old-person coffee mornings my granddad used to go to at the community center. They brought in snacks; one of them makes the best baklava I’ve ever tasted.”
“I hope they bring their snack skills with them,” said Carly.
“I’ve got raisins!” said Sid, holding out a small box of them for Carly.
“You keep them, Sid. But thanks.” Carly smiled at him.
Sid had been adopted as everyone’s little brother, and they looked out for him and kept him in line accordingly. He had dark eyes like Billy and appraised everyone with the same intensity, which could be construed as confrontational if you didn’t know them better. Harriet knew this was simply the brothers’ way of taking the measure of people, seeking out those they could trust.
“Right.” Harriet clapped her hands. “Let’s sit and discuss what our next steps should be.”
“I’ve got some ideas for scenery,” said Isabel. “I reckon I know where we can get our hands on some free stuff.”
This made Harriet a little nervous, but she smiled and said, “Okay, let’s have a chat about that.”
“What shall I do?” asked Sid.
“You will be an important part of the theater team; we need to know what you think of our plans,” Harriet told him.
Sid grinned up at her, one front tooth missing. It was impossible not to adore him, and she felt a bit sad that in a few short years, all that childhood glee would likely be replaced by the same teenage scowls his brother wore.
James arrived as they were setting up chairs on the stage around Leo working on the floor. She’d say this for James, he didn’t shy away from a challenge. Harriet found that she looked forward to seeing him, enjoyed the burst of butterflies in her stomach at the first sight of him and the way those same butterflies settled into an easy peace in his prolonged presence, stretching and sunning their wings. But today those wings were lacking some of their luster. She was still troubled by the notion that he might be ignoring Evaline’s shoddy approach to building management.
“Um, guys, I just need a quick word with James about…acoustics. Talk among yourselves for a minute.” None of them needed to be told twice. She motioned to James to follow her, which he did with a curious expression on his face.
She led him to the back of the dress circle and turned to face him.
“How much do you know about Evaline’s private lettings?” she asked without preamble.
He frowned. “It’s not my area. I deal mostly with her investment interests.”
“Are you aware that she doesn’t take good care of her properties? This one notwithstanding.”
He rubbed his chin. “What are you getting at?”
“I’ve heard things, from two sources now, which suggest that she isn’t as good a landlady as she could be.”
He looked awkward. She folded her arms. “I mean, sure, I’ve heard mutterings, the odd complaint here and there, but I’m not privy to the ins and outs—like I said, it’s not my area. I can tell you categorically that she isn’t breaking any laws—she’s meticulous on that score—but other than that I don’t get involved with that side of things. I have a full schedule of my own to contend with, and now a theater production to monitor too…”
Harriet pinned him with a hard stare, the one she used to crack her toughest cookies at school. The one that asked, Are you absolutely certain about that?
“What do you want from me?” James asked. “I only work for her. Surely an employee isn’t responsible for all their boss’s business decisions. Do you take issue with the dean of your school about all his adjudications? Why are you looking at me like that? It isn’t my area…”
She raised one eyebrow and continued to stare.
“Okay, fine,” he said, relenting. “I’ll look into it. I’ll do some digging and if I don’t like what I find, I’ll flag it. Are you happy now?”
She rewarded him with a small smile. “I think ‘happy’ is too strong a word, but I am satisfied. Thank you.”
James shook his head and muttered, “You should have been a prosecutor,” under his breath.
“You’re the one who said you wanted to do better.”
“And it seems you’re the one who’s going to make sure I stick to it.”
“Are you annoyed that I brought it up?” she asked.
“No. I’m embarrassed that you brought it up and annoyed at myself for not chasing it sooner.”
“Sometimes things get pushed to one side when we’re busy. It’s easily done.”
“I don’t imagine you let anything slide, no matter how busy you are.”
The splinter in her heart smarted, like it always did, reminding her of irreparable things.
“Catastrophic failure is a good motivator.” The words were out before she’d had time to check them, but when she saw his look of concern, she pushed a smile onto her face and walked briskly back to the group before he could ask more questions.
James sat opposite Harriet, sandwiched between Billy and Ricco, a well-used copy of the book held loosely in his hands, long fingers turning the browned pages, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Today he had swapped his suit for a black cable-knit sweater, dark blue jeans, and a pair of chestnut-colored Chelsea boots. He looked surprisingly at home discussing Charles Dickens. She wished she didn’t find him quite so nice to look at.
“The movie Scrooged with Bill Murray did it really well,” James suggested, which to Harriet’s delight was met with enthusiastic agreement from Ricco and Carly.
“I agree. What did you have in mind, Billy?” Harriet asked.
“We were thinking maybe we could do a modern-day version, you know, keeping the dialogue the same, but really changing it up like Baz Luhrmann did with Romeo and Juliet ,” Billy suggested.
“Certainly not!” A deep baritone voice echoed around the theater.
Everyone on the stage turned to see a man in a tweed cape with matching trousers and a bright green shirt protruding from his cape flaps striding down the middle aisle. A gaggle of equally colorful characters followed behind him.
“I cannot control what happens behind the film camera lens, but the purity of Dickens upon the stage will not be polluted on my watch!” the man continued. He stopped abruptly halfway down the aisle and held up his hand for the people behind him to do the same. Harriet was getting strong Toad of Toad Hall vibes. He looked to be well into his seventies, though his hair—thick and swished to one side à la George Michael during the Wham! years—was the color of canned pineapple.
Harriet recognized his pitch and condescension from their phone conversations.
“Mr. Clarke,” she called, standing and making her way to the edge of the stage.
“Please.” He smiled graciously and opened his arms wide to encompass the whole stage. “Call me Gideon.”
“Gideon.” She smiled back, hoping he couldn’t hear the snickering from behind her. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Where there is drama, there are the Great Foss Players!” He swept down into a low bow, his cape flaps flopping forward, then straightened and turned to the people behind him, presenting them to the group on the stage with a flourish of his wrists. They in turn bowed in an exaggerated way that gave the impression of being here to serve while assuring everyone present that they in fact only deigned to be here as a kind of theatrical rescue party.
“Great!” Harriet smiled widely.
“May I first draw to your attention the distinct lack of wheelchair access,” said Gideon. “It wasn’t at all ideal for Mallory to have to wheel herself through three miles of corridor to reach the auditorium.”
“Oh gosh, yes, of course, you’re absolutely right. So sorry about that, Mallory.” Harriet addressed the woman in the electric wheelchair, who was dressed in layers of autumnal-hued knits, with chopsticks holding up a barely contained bun of gray curls on the top of her head. “Ken is working on getting the lift up and running again as soon as possible.”
As she said this, two members of the maintenance team arrived carrying a ramp to fit against the stage.
“Ken thought you might need this,” one of them said jovially as her colleague helped her to clunk the ramp into place. They gave a cheery wave and a “Tally ho!” and left the auditorium.
“Okay.” Harriet smiled, feeling relieved; the last thing she wanted to do was alienate one of the actors who’d come to help them. “Let me introduce you to the team,” she said, and she went around the circle calling out each student’s name while gesturing toward them. The students mostly scowled at the newcomers, though Isabel managed a halfhearted wave and Leo gave a side nod from his position on the floor.
By this time Gideon had skirted around the orchestra pit, his cane—seemingly more accessory than necessity—tapping on every stair with a metallic clack as he ascended the steps to the stage. Once atop it, the rest of the Great Foss Players looking up in hungry anticipation, he flapped one half of his cape back over his shoulder and waved his cane around the circle of chairs.
“And who, if any, of you have theatrical experience?” he boomed. Isabel quaked visibly, and Billy slid farther down in his chair. The others raised their hands with varying degrees of confidence.
“They are all studying drama, theater, and English literature, or variations of the arts,” said Harriet when no words from her students seemed forthcoming. “So they are familiar with stage plays in general, and they each have an excellent grasp of this particular text. They are all keen to be hands-on with the process, aren’t you!” She smiled benevolently at her students, who, under her encouragement, seemed to find their voices again. Carly, Ricco, and Isabel sat straighter as they responded with more confident yeses. “And Leo has designed our backdrops; as you can see, he’s a talented artist.”
Gideon viewed them down his long nose, and his eyes flickered over Leo’s backcloth.
“And who is this?” he asked, pointing his cane at Sid, who grinned back at him like a cartoon cat.
“This is Sid, Billy’s younger brother and honorary member of the team,” Harriet said.
“Do you want to be on the stage, young man?” Gideon boomed.
“Okay,” Sid replied, completely unaffected by Gideon’s posturing.
“Good. Well then, it seems we have found our Tiny Tim, at least.” He eyed the rest of the group with a distaste that made Harriet nervous.
“They all have a good knowledge of each character’s lines, so whichever part they get, they’ll be ready, won’t you, guys?” She nodded enthusiastically at her students. “We’ve spent the last week really knuckling down on character motivation to get inside the soul of the play.” Perhaps this was overkill, but she wanted Gideon to know that her kids were serious and up to the task. “Carly and Ricco are super keen to perform the ‘What If’ song during Scrooge’s encounter with the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
Ricco sat up straighter but was quickly cowed by the probing glares of the Great Foss Players.
“Hmmm, we’ll see,” Gideon snapped, eyes aglow as they roved around the group, taking in Isabel’s facial piercings, Leo’s green hair, and Billy’s beaten-up boots.
Harriet saw them through Gideon’s eyes, knew the conclusions he would be leaping to, and her protectiveness sprung up like a forest vast and deep. Gideon continued in his pretense of an appraisal, but she realized with a sinking feeling that he’d made his decision even before he’d hung up from their phone call.
“Perhaps there will be parts for them,” he postured. “Perhaps not. This is not a school play. We will be performing before a real audience of theatergoers. Ours will be the first voices to grace these hallowed halls in fifty years!” he boomed dramatically. “We will be making history ! We cannot afford to give parts to just anyone , not when we have real actors in our party. Grace played a plague-ridden hag in a History Channel docudrama, and Douglas has twice been used as a cadaver in Silent Witness .” The two actors in question preened under the praise. “But we will have need of stagehands and dressers and the like—rest assured your protégés will be put to good use.”
Harriet’s hackles rose. “With all due respect”—her voice was clipped—“while I bow to your superior knowledge of the stage, I asked you here for your help with our production, not for my students to be ousted.”
Gideon looked at her as though he’d just sniffed her fart. “My dear woman…” he began, condescension lying heavily on the word woman .
Harriet clenched her fist. Gideon continued.
“This is a professional theater, hallowed ground to those who are called to tread the boards. It requires, no, it deserves actors who can do this stage justice, and the Great Foss Players are seasoned performers. We have performed in such productions as…”
Gideon lost his train of boast as James stood, unfolding himself to his full height, which was a good foot taller than the thespian. Gideon quickly recovered his stately posture, and when James held out his hand, he took it as one might handle a dead frog.
“My name is James Knight. I am acting as representative for Miss Evaline Winter, owner of this theater.” His voice was smooth and commanding, and Harriet wondered if anyone anywhere had ever resisted him when he turned on the full Knight charm offensive.
She imagined him using that voice to ask her to undress while he watched her from an armchair, legs crossed, suit on, stare intent, his fingers tented as he watched…Something deep in her core gave a delightful zing, and she had to pull her mind back out of her knicker department before she started noticeably salivating. Not the time or place, keep your head in the game. Is it hot in here?
Gideon’s whole persona had changed. Suddenly he was all overly white teeth and graciousness.
“Delighted, dear sir, delighted, I am sure. May I say on behalf of the Great Foss Players just how overwhelmed with profusions of gratitude we are that the great doyenne of the theater herself has decided to resurrect this once-great house of the arts to its former glory.”
“You may,” James replied coolly. “I should inform you that under Ms. Winter’s strict instructions, Harriet Smith is to act as director of the production; she is, for want of a better term, the top banana.”
This was news to Harriet, who couldn’t feel much less like the “top banana” if she tried. But she appreciated James drawing a line in the sand. Gideon opened his mouth to protest, but James added, “This is non-negotiable. What Harriet says goes. And I am sure that a devotee of the arts such as yourself will appreciate how vital it is to encourage new blood into the theater. These young people are bright and determined. To turn away enthusiastic fledglings is not only counterproductive to the cause but also self-destructive.”
Oh my! Harriet had never wanted to throw her knickers at a man more. Champion me, it’ll score you some points; champion my kids, you’re likely to score a home run!
Gideon’s arms were windmilling, as though he was physically backtracking, and he grinned emphatically to show his strenuous agreement. “Of course! Of course! So true! It’s like I am always saying to my company.” He gestured behind him. “We are but guardians of the craft, sages waiting for willing vessels such as these that we may pour forth our years of wisdom until their cups are replete.”
Judging by the expressions of the rest of the Great Foss Players, gathered below the stage, this was not something that Gideon was “always saying” to them. Harriet had googled the am-dram group and knew that they mostly performed in their local Scout hut, with occasional productions playing at the Great Foss town hall. It must have felt like quite a coup to have a whole theater dropped into their laps with only a handful of teenagers and a member of support staff standing in the path of their ambitions. But Harriet had no intention of being railroaded by anyone, and neither did James. As Ricco had so eloquently put it, this was their crapfest, and nobody was going to muscle them out of it.