It Could Never Happen Here by Eithne Shortall

Author:Eithne Shortall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books

22

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The Glass Lake auditorium was unrecognisable from the hall Christine had sat in at the start of the week for the Parents’ Information Night. Gone were the orderly rows of seats, the tables topped with tablecloths and carefully arranged finger-food platters, and the parents dressed in suits and autumnal coats. When Christine entered the hall now, just before 1 p.m. on Thursday, she was greeted by colourful pandemonium.

A large group of children stood on the stage, half of them dressed in orange and the other half decked out in blue, but all committing to their chosen colour from the bobble at the top of their hats down to the toes of their socks. Beverley Franklin stood in front of the coordinated children. She had her back to Christine, but it was clear she was reading them the riot act.

Amelia Franklin was standing off to the side of the stage, holding her long blonde ponytail aloft as Maeve pulled at the back of her sky-blue ‘Dorothy’ dress. A measuring tape and several yards of ribbon hung around Maeve’s neck and Christine was relieved that this, at least, had worked out for her easily stressed middle child.

About two dozen more students were milling around the main hall, under the supervision of Mr Cafferty and a couple of other teachers. The students sported a mixture of fantastical costume and Glass Lake uniform. One child, presumably the tinman, was having large sheets of silver cardboard attached to his body by a woman in her sixties who wore a bright pink kaftan and who herself looked like she could play one of Oz’s good witches. Seamus McGrath, the school caretaker, was taping mesh to a tall, wire structure that was already identifiable as a tornado.

Lorna Lick-Arse Farrell was the only other parent present. She was dressed all in black, save for a coffee-coloured wraparound cardigan, and she was holding some sort of stick, which she periodically banged on the ground, adding to the cacophony of noise and making the small circle of students gathered before her leap with fright. Woody Whitehead was among them, dressed in his uniform but with whiskers painted on to his face.

Derek had pitched this article as ‘on-the-ground reporting’. ‘Our Glass Lake correspondent embeds herself in the trenches of rehearsals and reports on what’s really going on,’ he’d said in the action movie trailer voice he used to spice up rudimentary stories. Christine had written several such pieces in her time with the Southern Gazette and knew that the key was to mention as many students as possible, so they could use plenty of photographs of them dressed in adorable costumes.

She pulled her notebook from her handbag and jotted down a few quick observations. She was trying to remember the name of the boy playing the tinman when she felt a tug on her jacket.

A small girl in orange leggings, sweatshirt and woolly hat was standing at her side.

‘Director Franklin says you’re to wait in the stalls.’

Christine looked up to the stage and waved at Beverley, but she was already turning back to the blue and orange children.

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