Midsummer Madness by Stella Whitelaw

Author:Stella Whitelaw [Stella Whitelaw]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780709097228
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2012-03-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It felt like the long mile walk to the guillotine. Joe was trying to keep encouragement on his face. Some members of the cast started to clap. Their smiling faces were a blur. People moved about like mechanical ghosts.

‘That’s my girl,’ Joe whispered. ‘You can do it.’

He was guiding me downstairs to Wardrobe. Hilda went into a state of panic, knocking the screen over. She’d worked on my costumes half the night, just in case. I hoped my half-baked brain would remember to buy her some flowers.

‘Here she is, Hilda. The most courageous woman in London. Look after her. I’ve a dozen last-minute things to do. See you later.’

I stripped behind the screen, my fingers faltering, shedding Damart.

‘You won’t need a vest on stage,’ said Hilda, helping me into the page boy’s doublet and shirt first for a last check. It fitted perfectly. She took it off and hung it on a hanger, then pulled the torn shipwreck dress over my head. I stood there like a dummy. ‘It’s hot under those lights. Used to be on the stage myself, you know, one of the Bluebell Girls. In the chorus line.’

I looked at Hilda with new interest. I could see a certain faded glamour, thin rather than slim, pale eyes worn out from close sewing, tinted brown hair.

‘We used to make a lot of our own costumes. All spangles and sequins. That’s how I got into sewing, when my legs gave up.’

‘What happened to your legs?’ asked my voice.

‘Varicose veins. The devil they are. Painful and unsightly. And there were family problems….’

I let Hilda gabble on about her ailments and looking after her mother. Despite my brave words on the phone, I didn’t feel in the least bit brave. What had I said? I’d been carried away, angered by Fran’s cool assumption of a cancellation. I should have kept my mouth shut. This was going to be one almighty disaster.

The costumes were beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Joe had specially dyed the velvet to the colours of saffron, granary, and fudge and sugarcane. The short cloaks were lined with shot silk, edged with old braid. Every set was going to look like a medieval painting. The harmonious colours in themselves built up the period, the atmosphere, the style. How had he got it all to look so old? Beaten it to death?

‘Good thing I’ve got plenty of different buckled shoes,’ Hilda said. ‘Your feet are bigger than Elinor’s. Pity, these little velvet slippers are so pretty but too small for you. She loves them.’

‘She’ll wear them when she comes back,’ I said.

I was hardly aware of Joe returning to OK the costumes but I suppose he did. Hilda was busy. She had other last-minute alterations to do as well.

‘This fitted last week,’ Byron grumbled, trying to fasten a waistcoat, tugging at the edges.

‘Too much booze,’ said Hilda, ripping a back seam open with one of those sharp gadgets. ‘Could you try not to breath for a bit?’

‘You’re a brick, Hilda.

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