Читать книгу A Patriotic Schoolgirl (WWI Centenary Series) - Angela Brazil - Страница 15

CHAPTER III.

The Talents Tournament

By the time Marjorie had been a fortnight at Brackenfield she had already caught the atmosphere of the place, and considered herself a well-established member of the community. In the brief space of two weeks she had learnt many things; first and foremost, that Hilton House had been a mere kindergarten in comparison with the big busy world in which she now moved, and that all her standards required readjusting. Instead of being an elder pupil, with a considerable voice in the arrangement of affairs, she was now only an Intermediate, under the absolute authority of Seniors, a unit in a large army of girls, and, except from her own point of view, of no very great importance. If she wished to make any reputation for herself her claims must rest upon whether or not she could prove herself an asset to the school, either by obtaining a high place in her form, or winning distinction in the playing-fields, or among the various guilds and societies. Marjorie was decidedly ambitious. She felt that she would like to gain honours and to have her name recorded in the school magazine. Dazzling dreams danced before her of tennis or cricket colours, of solos in concerts, or leading parts in dramatic recitals, of heading examination lists, and—who knew?—of a possible prefectship some time in the far future. Meanwhile, if she wished to attain to any of these desirable objects, Work, with a capital W, must be her motto. She had been placed in IVa, and, though most of the subjects were within her powers, it needed all the concentration of which she was capable to keep even a moderate position in the weekly lists. Miss Duckworth, her form mistress, had no tolerance for slackers. She was a breezy, cheery, interesting personality, an inspiring teacher, and excellent at games, taking a prominent part in all matches or tournaments “Mistresses versus Pupils”. Miss Duckworth was immensely popular amongst her girls. It was the fashion to admire her.

“I think the shape of her nose is just perfect!” declared Francie Sheppard. “And I like that Rossetti mouth, although some people might say it’s too big. I wish I had auburn hair!”

“I wonder if it ripples naturally, or if she does it up in wavers?” speculated Elsie Bartlett. “It must be ever so long when it’s down. Annie Turner saw her once in her dressing-gown, and said that her hair reached to her knees.”

“But Annie always exaggerates,” put in Sylvia Page. “You may take half a yard off Annie’s statements any day.”

“I think Duckie’s a sport!” agreed Laura Norris.

The girls were lounging in various attitudes of comfort round the fire in their sitting-room at St. Elgiva’s, in that blissful interval between preparation and supper, when nothing very intellectual was expected from them, and they might amuse themselves as they wished. Irene, squatting on the rug, was armed with the tongs, and kept poking down the miniature volcanoes that arose in the coal; Elsie luxuriated in the rocking-chair all to herself; while Francie and Sylvia—a tight fit—shared the big basket-chair. In a corner three chums were coaching each other in the speeches for a play, and a group collected round the piano were trying the chorus of a new popular song.

“Go it, Patricia!” called Irene to the girl who was playing the accompaniment. “You did that no end! St. Elgiva’s ought to have a chance for the sight-reading competition. Trot out that song to-morrow night by all means. It’ll take the house by storm!”

“What’s going to happen to-morrow night?” enquired Marjorie, who, having changed her dress for supper, now came into the room and joined the circle by the fire.

“A very important event, my good child,” vouchsafed Francie Sheppard—”an event upon which you might almost say all the rest of the school year hangs. We call it the Talents Tournament.”

“The what?”

“I wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions. I was just going to explain, if you’ll give me time. The whole school meets in the Assembly Hall, and anybody who feels she can do anything may give us a specimen of her talents, and if she passes muster she’s allowed to join one of the societies—the Dramatic, or the Part Singing, or the Orchestra, or the French Conversational; or she may exhibit specimens if she wants to enter the Natural History or Scientific, or show some of her drawings if she’s artistic.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I? Nothing at all. I hate showing off!”

“I’ve no ‘parlour tricks’ either,” yawned Laura. “I shall help to form the audience and do the clapping; that’s the rôle I’m best at.”

“Old Mollie’ll put you up to tips if you’re yearning to go on the platform,” suggested Elsie. “She’s A 1 at recitations, reels them off no end, I can tell you. You needn’t hang your head, Mollums, like a modest violet; it’s a solid fact. You’re the ornament of St. Elgiva’s when it comes to saying pieces. Have you got anything fresh, by the way, for to-morrow night?”

“Well, I did learn something new during the holidays,” confessed Mollie. “I hope you’ll like it—it’s rather funny. I hear there’s to be a new society this term. Meg Hutchinson was telling me about it.”

“Oh, I know, the ‘Charades’!” interrupted Francie; “and a jolly good idea too. It isn’t everybody who has time to swat at learning parts for the Dramatic. Besides, some girls can do rehearsed acting well, and are no good at impromptu things, and vice versa. They want sorting out.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marjorie.

“Oh, bother you! You’re always wanting explanations. Well, of course you know we have a Dramatic Society that gets up quite elaborate plays; the members spend ages practising their speeches and studying their attitudes before the looking-glass, and they have gorgeous costumes made for them, and scenery and all the rest of it—a really first-rate business. Some of the prefects thought that it was rather too formal an affair, and suggested another society for impromptu acting. Nothing is to be prepared beforehand. Mrs. Morrison is to give a word for a charade, and the members are allowed two minutes to talk it over, and must act it right away with any costumes they can fling on out of the ‘property box’. They’ll be arranged in teams, and may each have five minutes for a performance. I expect it will be a scream.”

“Are you fond of acting, Marjorie?” asked Mollie.

“I just love it!”

“Then put down your name for the Charades Tournament. We haven’t got a great number of volunteers from St. Elgiva’s yet. Most of the girls seem to funk it. Elsie, aren’t you going to try?”

Elsie shook her curls regretfully.

“I’d like to, but I know every idea I have would desert me directly I faced an audience. I’m all right with a definite part that I’ve got into my head, but I can’t make up as I go along, and it’s no use asking me. I’d only bungle and stammer, and make an utter goose of myself, and spoil the whole thing. Hallo! There’s the supper bell. Come along!”

Marjorie followed the others in to supper with a feeling of exhilaration. She was immensely attracted by the idea of the Talents Tournament. So far, as a new girl, she had been little noticed, and had had no opportunity of showing what she could do. She had received a hint from Mollie, on her first day, that new girls who pushed themselves forward would probably be met with snubs, so she had not tried the piano in the sitting-room, or given any exhibition of her capabilities unasked. This, however, would be a legitimate occasion, and nobody could accuse her of trying to show off by merely entering her name in the Charades competition.

“I wish Dona would play her violin and have a shy for the school Orchestra,” she thought. “I’ll speak to her if I can catch her after supper.”

It was difficult for the sisters to find any time for private talk, but by dodging about the passage Marjorie managed to waylay Dona before the latter disappeared into St. Ethelberta’s, and propounded her suggestion.

“Oh, I couldn’t!” replied Dona in horror. “Go on the platform and play a piece? I’d die! Please don’t ask me to do anything so dreadful. I don’t want to join the Orchestra. Oh, well, yes—I’ll go in for the drawing competition if you like, but I’m not keen. I don’t care about all these societies; my lessons are quite bad enough. I’ve made friends with Ailsa Donald, and we have lovely times all to ourselves. We’re making scrap albums for the hospital. Miss Jones has given us all her old Christmas cards. She’s adorable! I say, I must go, or I shall be late for our call over. Ta-ta!”

The “Talents Tournament” was really a very important event in the school year, for upon its results would depend the placing of the various competitors in certain coveted offices. It was esteemed a great privilege to be asked to join the Orchestra, and to be included in the committee of the “Dramatic” marked a girl’s name with a lucky star.

On the Saturday evening in question the whole school, in second-best party dresses, met in the big Assembly Hall. It was a conventional occasion, and they were received by Mrs. Morrison and the teachers, and responded with an elaborate politeness that was the cult of the College. For the space of three hours an extremely high-toned atmosphere prevailed, not a word of slang offended the ear, and everybody behaved with the dignity and courtesy demanded by such a stately ceremony. Mrs. Morrison, in black silk and old lace, her white hair dressed high, was an imposing figure, and set a standard of cultured deportment that was copied by every girl in the room. The Brackenfielders prided themselves upon their manners, and, though they might relapse in the playground or dormitory, no Court etiquette could be stricter than their code for public occasions. The hall was quite en fête; it had been charmingly decorated by the Seniors with autumn leaves and bunches of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies. A grand piano and pots of palms stood on the platform, and the best school banner ornamented the wall. It all looked so festive that Marjorie, who had been rather dreading the gathering, cheered up, and began to anticipate a pleasant evening. She shook hands composedly with the Empress, and ran the gauntlet of greetings with the other mistresses with equal credit, not an altogether easy ordeal under the watching eyes of her companions. This preliminary ceremony being finished, she thankfully slipped into a seat, and waited for the business part of the tournament to begin.

The reception of the whole school lasted some time, and the Empress’s hand must have ached. Her mental notes as to the quality of the handshakes she received would be publicly recorded next day from the platform, with special condemnation for the limp, fishy, or three-fingered variety on the one side, or the agonizing ring-squeezer on the other. Miss Thomas, one of the music mistresses, seated herself at the piano, and the proceedings opened with a violin-solo competition. Ten girls, in more or less acute stages of nervousness, each in turn played a one-page study, their points for which were carefully recorded by the judges, marks being given for tone, bowing, time, tune, and artistic rendering. As they retired to put away their instruments, their places were taken by vocal candidates. In order to shorten the programme, each was allowed to sing only one verse of a song, and their merits or faults were similarly recorded. Several of the Intermediates had entered for the competition. Rose Butler trilled forth a sentimental little ditty in a rather quavering mezzo; Annie Turner, whose compass was contralto, poured out a sea ballad—a trifle flat; Nora Cleary raised a storm of applause by a funny Irish song, and received marks for style, though her voice was poor in quality; and Elsie Bartlett scored for St. Elgiva’s by reaching high B with the utmost clearness and ease. The Intermediates grinned at one another with satisfaction. Even Gladys Woodham, the acknowledged prima donna of St. Githa’s, had never soared in public beyond A sharp. They felt that they had beaten the Seniors by half a tone.

Piano solos were next on the list, limited to two pages, on account of the too speedy passage of time. Here again the St. Elgiva’s girls expected a triumph, for Patricia Lennox was to play a waltz especially composed in her honour by a musical friend. It was called “Under the Stars”, and bore a coloured picture of a dark-blue sky, water and trees, and a stone balustrade, and it bore printed upon it the magic words “Dedicated to Patricia”, and underneath, written in a firm, manly hand, “With kindest remembrances from E. H.”.

The whole of Elgiva’s had thrilled when allowed to view the copy exhibited by its owner with many becoming blushes, but with steadfast refusals to record tender particulars; and though Patricia’s enemies were unkind enough to say that there was no evidence that the “Patricia” mentioned on the cover was identical with herself, or that the “E. H.” stood for Edwin Herbert, the composer, it was felt that they merely objected out of envy, and would have been only too delighted to have such luck themselves.

They all listened entranced as Patricia dashed off her piece. She had a showy execution, and it really sounded very well. The whole school knew about the dedication and the inscription; the Intermediates had taken care of that. As their champion descended from the platform, they felt that she had invested St. Elgiva’s with an element of mystery and romance. But alas! one story is good until another is told, and St. Githa’s had been reserving a trump card for the occasion. Winifrede Mason had herself composed a piece. She called it “The Brackenfield March”, and had written it out in manuscript, and drawn a picture of the school in bold black-and-white upon a brown paper cover. It was quite a jolly, catchy tune, with plenty of swing and go about it, and the fact that it was undoubtedly her own production caused poor Patricia’s waltz to pale before it. The clapping was tremendous. Every girl in school, with the exception of nine who had not studied the piano, was determined to copy the march and learn it for herself, and Winifrede was immediately besieged with applications for the loan of the manuscript. She bore her honours calmly.

“Oh, it wasn’t difficult! I just knocked it off, you know. I’ve heaps of tunes in my head; it’s only a matter of getting them written down, really. When I’ve time I’ll try to make up another. Oh, I don’t know about publishing it—that can wait.”

To live in the same school with a girl who composed pieces was something! Everybody anticipated the publication of the march, and felt that the reputation of Brackenfield would be thoroughly established in the musical world.

The next item on the programme was an interval for refreshments, during which time various exhibits of drawings and of scientific and natural history specimens were on view, and were judged according to merit by Miss Carter and Miss Hughlins.

The second part of the evening was to be dramatic. A good many names had been given in for the Charades competition, and these were arranged in groups of four. Each company was given one syllable of a charade to act, with a strict time limit. A large assortment of clothes and some useful articles of furniture were placed in the dressing-room behind the platform, and the actresses were allowed only two minutes to arrange their stage, don costumes, and discuss their piece.

Marjorie found herself drawn with Annie Turner, Belle Miller, and Violet Nelson, two of the Juniors. The syllable to be acted was “Age”, and the four girls withdrew to the dressing-room for a hasty conference.

“What can we do? I haven’t an idea in my head,” sighed Annie. “Two minutes is not enough to think.”

The Juniors said nothing, but giggled nervously. Marjorie’s ready wits, however, rose to the emergency.

“We’ll have a Red Cross Hospital,” she decided. “You, Annie, are the Commandant, and we three are prospective V.A.D.’s coming to be interviewed. You’ve got to ask us our names and ages, and a heap of other questions. Put on that Red Cross apron, quick, and we’ll put on hats and coats and pretend we’ve had a long journey. Belle, take in a table and a chair for the Commandant. She ought to be sitting writing.”

Annie, Belle, and Violet seized on the idea with enthusiasm, and robed themselves immediately. When the bell rang the performers marched on to the platform without any delay (which secured ten marks for promptitude). Annie, in her Red Cross apron, rapped the table in an authoritative fashion and demanded the business of her callers. Then the fun began. Marjorie, posing as a wild Irish girl, put on a capital imitation of the brogue, and urged her own merits with zeal. She evaded the question of her right age, and offered a whole catalogue of things she could do, from dressing a wound to mixing a pudding and scrubbing the passages. She was so racy and humorous, and threw in such amusing asides, that the audience shrieked with laughter, and were quite disappointed when the five minutes’ bell put a sudden and speedy end to the interesting performance. As Marjorie walked back to her seat she became well aware that she had scored. Her fellow Intermediates looked at her with a new interest, for she had brought credit to St. Elgiva’s.

“Isn’t she a scream?” she overheard Rose Butler say to Francie Sheppard, and Francie replied “Rather! I call her topping!” which, of course, was slang, and not fit for such an occasion; but then the girls were beginning to forget the elaborate ceremony of the opening of the evening.

Next day, after morning school was over, Jean Everard, one of the prefects, tapped Marjorie on the shoulder.

“We’ve put your name down for the Charades Society,” she said briefly. “I suppose you want to join?”

“Rather!” replied Marjorie, flushing to the roots of her hair with delight at the honour offered her.