The Pyramid Page 12

  “You think of everything, Norman. Hold on, though. He’ll have to have a halberd. Essex didn’t carry a halberd, did he?”

  “Of course not, Evelyn,” sang Mr. Claymore. “You’re pulling my leg! I had a sword, a horse and a whole troop of servants!”

  Mr. De Tracy smiled moonily down at him.

  “‘Seven of my servants with an obedient start—’”

  “More than that. But it’s a point. We haven’t got a halberd.”

  I began to move unobtrusively, off stage.

  “Well that’s settled then. I’ll just—”

  “Hold on, young Olly. Henry Williams. He’s the man. Yes. I’ll speak to him on the way home. He’ll run us up a halberd in no time.”

  “I believe,” said my mother from the other side of the green baize, “I believe a beefeater has a rosette on his shoes too—”

  “You’ll have a picture, madam, I don’t doubt.”

  “Oh yes!” said my mother, laughing excitedly. “There’s one in Oliver’s Children’s Encyclopaedia!’”

  “Mother! My God—”

  “Right,” sang Mr. Claymore. “You can pick up the costume from my house this afternoon, Oliver, and get the halberd from Henry as soon as he’s finished it. Now we’d better get the scene settled.”

  I clambered down and put away my violin, my penny and my bow. I tried to give my mother a fierce and dirty look, but the hall was too dark. When I turned back, Mr. Claymore and Imogen were facing each other in the middle of the stage, heads lifted as though they were staring at each other over a wall. Mr. De Tracy was examining a broom. He held it out to me.

  “Here’s your halberd, laddy. Down stage, right. You’ll be standing there for all the last scene except the finale.”

  “Evelyn, old man, I must say something! Give me a line, will you?”

  “You wouldn’t prefer to move your hand, the way Ivor did?”

  “I have it, Evelyn. How’s this? But stay, your Royal Highness, we are not alone—” He turned and flung out his hand in my face. “Leave us!”

  “Magnificent, old man. A really theatrical touch. Ivor himself couldn’t write a better line!”

  “Then he’ll have to salute, of course.”

  “I wonder how you salute with a halberd?”

  “He’d better lower the point to the ground. Try it, young Olly. Careful, boy! My God! You might have hit me!”

  “I think,” said Mr. De Tracy, when his knees were still, “I think he’d better not lower the point because it would go more than half way across the stage. Perhaps—Allow me, Oliver, dear boy. Stand like that; and when the King comes up to you in that magnificent way and speaks, stand like that and do this. Right? Then you can turn and march off through there and we can all see those splendid strides of yours once more, can’t we? Try it!”

  “Leave us, my man!”

  “Oh no, no, no!” cried my mother, laughing lightly. “He wouldn’t say ‘My man’. Not the king! Not to a beefeater!”

  “What rank would you suggest, madam?”

  “General, perhaps,” said my mother, still laughing. “That would sound very well, wouldn’t it?”

  “I am not going to call a boy like that a general!”

  “He is a bit young for it, old man. Oliver, laddy. What rank do you feel? Um?”

  “I dunno. I wish—”

  “I’ll call him ‘Sergeant’. Will that satisfy you, madam? Just let us know!’

  “Pray don’t consider me, Mr. Claymore! I’m concerned solely with the music. But since you ask me, I should think that ‘Colonel’ would be about right.”

  “Colonel! Ha! Colonel! That boy?”

  “Careful, Norman, old man.”

  “Colonel!”

  “How about ‘Major’, old man, um? D’you feel like a major, laddy?”

  “Major would do very well, don’t you think, Oliver, dear?”

  Mr. Claymore took three steps down stage. His fists were clenched by his sides. He was white faced, sweating, and quivering all over.

  “Madam,” he sang. “You observed just now that you were concerned solely with the music. Pray confine yourself to it!”

  My mother uttered a high, tinkling laugh.

  “At least I can read music,” she said, “and don’t have to be taught it note by note!”

  The silence was awesome. Mr. Claymore turned on his heel and walked slowly up stage left until he was in the corner, his nose six inches from the painted flat. I stood, miserably looking at my broom. Imogen still sat, still smiled a permanent, sybilline smile at some private mystery. The silence went on and on.

  My mother went suddenly to the piano, banged the lid, slapped music together. Even in that dim light I could see she was shivering like Mr. Claymore.

  “Come along, Oliver!”

  “Where?”

  “Home, of course. Where d’you think? The zoo?”

  Mr. De Tracy stepped into the middle of the stage. He embraced us all, from my mother’s shivering brooch, to Mr. Claymore’s curly back hair, in a gesture and a smile of infinite understanding and affection. But before he could say anything, Mr. Claymore began to sing to the painted flat.

  “Never again. No. Never again. Oh, I assure you, never again!”

  My mother banged the lid down on the keyboard.

  “And I assure you, Mr. Claymore—never again. No indeed! Come, Oliver!”

  Mr. De Tracy shook his head, in smiling affection.

  “Artistes—artistes to the bone! Um? Now come everybody—boys and girls—Imogen, sweet friend! Um? How often I’ve seen it happen—highly strung—just a tiff—um?”

  My mother stood, gripping the music stand of the piano with both hands and looking sideways at the stage.

  Mr. Claymore continued to sing.

  “Never again. Oh never again, never—”

  “Oh look, Mother—let’s get it done with!”

  “Imogen, dear lady—”

  “I’m hungry, Norman. Please, dear!”

  “Artistes to the bone—”

  There was another long pause. My mother laughed suddenly, on a new, lower note, then was silent again, staring at the piano.

  “Come on, Mother—he can call me—Charley’s Aunt if he wants!”

  Mr. De Tracy laughed reverberatingly, inviting us all to join in, with his arms and merry face.

  “Now I’m going to bully you all again. Um? I insist! Who’s the producer? Um? Madam? Oliver? Imogen, sweetest, dearest? Norman, you old trooper? You can’t carry everything on those broad shoulders, you know!”

  The pause was a little shorter. Then Mr. Claymore turned his face slightly from the flat, and spoke, strangled.

  “‘Captain’. I’ll call him ‘Captain’. ‘Leave us, Captain,’ I’ll say that.”

  Mr. De Tracy turned his yellow spot balls towards the hall and smiled into it.

  “Um?”

  “It’s a matter of complete indifference to me, Mr. De Tracy. I’m confined to the music. You must settle it among yourselves. I shan’t say another word.”

  Mr. Claymore spun on his heel, fists clenched, opened his mouth; then shut it again. He stood there, looking. Mr. De Tracy continued to smile, mellow and gentle.

  “Right! Splendid! We are agreed! And now—drinkies! Norman? Oliver? Ladies?”

  “Thank you, Mr. De Tracy; but I do not care to enter Those Places—”

  I had begun to put the broom back by the door of the Mayor’s Parlour, and was looking forward to a quiet glass of cider or shandy, when I heard my mother’s voice go on, high and firm.

  “—and neither does my son!”

  *

  That afternoon, I got my gipsy costume and my beefeater’s doublet and hose from Mr. Claymore. I took them home and tried them on. They were both on the small side; for though Mr. Claymore was about my height, I found the doublet very tight across the chest, while the waist was so loose my mother had to do some tucking before it was anywhere near a fit. As for the gipsy costume, it had been buil
t round someone half as tall again as I was, and only about a quarter as thick. For this reason, a sort of purple satin waistcoat would hardly come farther round me than my armpits; and the only part of the costume that fitted was a red, stocking cap which could be enlarged to requirement. It was fringed with gilded glass beads which tinkled when I moved my head, and I thought, bitterly enough, would drown out both Mr. Claymore and my muted violin. But my mother said they were most becoming. After I had tried them out I went down to the garage to get my halberd. Henry was there, and he was in the office and wearing a suit.

  “Hullo Henry! You got my halberd?”

  Henry turned from the desk.

  “Well now, Master Oliver. It’s a Saturday afternoon you know. We aren’t all gentlemen of leisure, are we?”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ll see. One moment, now.”

  He chose a key from the key board, climbed off the high stool and went across the concrete forecourt. Inside the main building he opened a wooden door to an inner shed. My halberd was lying on a bench, supported by two wooden chocks.

  “Oh dyma vi! That’s a wicked looking instrument, that is! Whatever are you using that for?”

  “I’m saluting Mr. Claymore with it.”

  Henry said nothing, and we stood side by side looking at the halberd. The blade was made of sheet iron, painted silver. Below it was a cluster of tassels; and below that again the wooden shaft was painted red. I reached out my hand.

  “Careful my goodness! It’ll be wet, won’t it? What time is the performance? Half past seven I expect.”

  “What am I going to do? You won’t still be open will you?”

  “Only for petrol. We’ll have to leave it somewhere you can get at it. You take that chock and I’ll take this—”

  With great care we manoeuvred the halberd out of the building and processed with it to the open shed that contained nothing but Miss Dawlish’s little two seater. We laid it on the concrete by the wall.

  “Now,” said Henry. “You leave that till the last minute, Master Oliver.”

  “I shan’t need it till about ten. Half past nine, anyway. It’s for the last scene you see.”

  “It might be dry. I’m not promising anything, mind. But it might be dry. Is that paint on your trousers?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “My goodness. That’s what they call Oxford Trousers isn’t it?”

  “Bags.”

  “So you don’t have to clean your shoes, whatever. Labour saving that’s what that is. All right, Master Oliver. You fetch your ’alberd as late as you can.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hurried home and found my mother creating my hat. She was still in a state of suppressed but happy excitement. If anything, the row with Mr. Claymore had added to it.

  “Come here, dear. Try this on.”

  I put the hat on my head and it sat on top like a pancake.

  “You have your father’s head,” she said happily. “I shall have to take the band out.”

  “Where do I change, Mother?”

  “Here, of course! Where do you suppose?”

  “I thought—”

  “We’re very fortunate to live so close. Poor young Smith had such a long journey! And with his costume soaked, too! Wertwhistles have lent their waiting room for the ladies. Of course until last week they were going to use the Mayor’s Parlour. I do hope it doesn’t rain again! It’s such a pity we haven’t a proper theatre!”

  “Do I have to go out in the street?”

  “Don’t be silly, Oliver!”

  “Dressed as a gipsy? And as a beefeater?”

  “Now try this on again. Don’t cram it down because I’ve taken out the band and you’ll scratch yourself. Oh dear. No. I shall have to split it up the back. Have you time to get your hair cut?”

  “No!”

  “You’re not being very helpful, are you, dear? That reminds me, I got you a splendid ruff from the butcher’s. Mr. Danford was most kind.”

  “Not in the street!”

  “I can’t understand why you two men aren’t more helpful. There’s your father—well never mind that. Think of Mr. Harvey, coming all the way from Bumstead Episcopi with his double-bass behind that little car and with a sermon to preach tomorrow! For shame, Oliver! You ought to be—why, when Mr. Harvey was a young man he used to tow his double bass all that way behind his tricycle! I would hold my breath sometimes to see him come down the hill from the woods with his double bass catching him up. It was a relief to see him shoot over the Old Bridge, I can tell you! Every time there was any music in Stilbourne he’d come pedalling through the woods—though of course he did give up for a year or two after the load of hay fell on him. Old Sparrow was drunk and I always think it was so fortunate his boy tried straight away to get the load back with a pitchfork; and after he’d discovered the double bass, well naturally, he knew who was there.”

  “Look, Mother—”

  “I’m afraid we shall have to split it further you know. I hope it’s all full of brains, dear! No. There are some people to whom things just happen! Rather like you, dear! Remember the time you fell in the piano? Of course he’s getting old now, and to tell the truth, a little deaf. It’s such a pity. On Thursday night he got the numbers mixed up on his music stand and played the wrong one. Fortunately they were both in three-four time—”

  “They’re all in three-four time. Always.”

  “—so it didn’t matter so much because one ‘Om, pom, pom,’ is very like another ‘Om, pom, pom,’ isn’t it? The only trouble was he played number seven instead of number four, and number seven is longer. So he went ‘Om, pom, pom,’ on and on after everybody else had finished—for a whole verse in fact. The result as you can imagine, dear, was that the audience thought it was intentional so they didn’t applaud. Mr. Claymore was livid.”

  “Yes. I can imagine.”

  “Now don’t you pay any attention to Mr. Claymore, Oliver! Mr. De Tracy is producer. You do what he tells you.”

  “What part’s he playing?”

  “But he’s not!”

  “Why’s he dressed like that, then?”

  “He’s a professional. From London. A term at Oxford hasn’t made you entirely sophisticated, has it?”

  “Finished?”

  “Don’t be impatient, dear.”

  “I’m fed up!”

  “And don’t be like Mr. Claymore, dear! Did you hear the very last thing he said?” And my mother lifted her nose in a Claymore gesture of the face so that her spectacles flashed—“‘Evelyn, old man, I shall spend the afternoon Lying Down!’ But—” And she flashed her spectacles at me over my hat—“Mr. De Tracy can see further than most through a brick wall, you may depend on it! He has the measure of that man! He knows the only way to handle that man—any of that family indeed—is flattery. Did you notice how he laid it on?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Of course we must seem the veriest amateurs to him. But he’s always kind and cheerful—and most appreciative of the music. He told the reporter in my hearing that he thought the orchestra was worthy of special mention. He said he’d never heard anything like it. Though of course with Claymore at the helm we shall just get our usual ‘The orchestra rendered yeoman service under the direction of—’ I only hope they spell our name properly this time!”

  “That seems about right, doesn’t it?”

  “I shall have to put a bit of elastic at the back here, so that the split doesn’t open too wide. You don’t want your hat falling off, dear! To tell you the truth, I’m determined that Mr. Claymore shall have absolutely nothing to complain of. He may quarrel if he wishes to, but I shan’t take part! It takes two to make a quarrel, after all. Besides, we ought to let Mr. De Tracy take away a good impression!”

  “His knees are funny, aren’t they?”

  “Knees? Oh! I see what you mean! When I was a girl, we used to call them ‘Horseman’s knees’. You were too young when Lord Cromer opened the Institute,
of course. You wouldn’t remember. I wonder if Mr. De Tracy was ever in the cavalry?”

  “It’s not very likely is it?”

  “I’m sure he’d look most distinguished!”

  My mother jumped up gaily, and tried on my hat herself, then handed it to me.

  “It doesn’t seem very safe at the back, Mother. It kind of rides up.”

  “Oh dear. You couldn’t hold it on, I suppose? With one hand?”

  “I’ve got to salute with a blo—”

  “Oliver!”

  “—oming great halberd!”

  “I’ll sew in a stay. You can wear it under your chin, like the sailor hat you used to have. I always thought you looked so sweet in it. There was HMS LION on the band. When we had that fortnight in Weymouth you went right up to some sailors and said, ‘I’m a sailor too!’”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Put the kettle on, would you, dear? We’ll have a sort of High Tea; then if you’re hungry after the performance you can forage when you come back. There’ll be coffee and cakes afterwards, of course, but people don’t really eat anything. Everyone’s much too excited. That’s right, dear! Now you’d better practise your violin.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “You don’t want Mr. Claymore to have anything to complain of, now, do you?”

  “Oh all right.”

  “And take the penny out!”

  “Mr. Claymore—”

  “I didn’t mean for the actual performance, silly,” said my mother, laughing again. “I mean for now. You oughtn’t to have left the penny there, Oliver. It can’t be good for your violin.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Leave it in the case!”

  “I’ll keep it in my pocket.”

  “So long as there is one. In your gipsy costume, I mean.”

  “I’d better go down to the garage and see if my halberd’s dry.”

  “Don’t be long, will you?”

  I went back to my halberd, bent down and touched it. The paint was still tacky and I left it where it was. Henry, being Henry, was still in the office. But when I went to him and explained, he had nothing to suggest. This surprised me a little for I had grown accustomed to thinking of Henry as a man who settled things. I strolled home slowly, to find my mother ready with my tea and a newly stayed hat. My father was there too, gloomily munching his way through a Cornish pasty. My mother ate nothing but talked vivaciously and moved as though a foot above the earth.