The Playing Fields

Chapter 27

"Henry!" Ellen called to the young man as he passed the doorway to the costume room, "could you be a dear and hold this for me for just a second?"

"For an opportunity like this, Mrs. Richardson, I'd be any kind of animal you liked." He whisked a charming, bright-toothed smile across Denise, standing on a small box, posing in strips of pinned material for one of the costumes.

"Don't be naughty, Henry. I just need you to hold this hem right here until I get some more pins."

"You know, you ladies are doing a standup job with these costumes."He said, kneeling beside Denise, holding the hem as directed.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Denise smiled, looking down at the top of his coal black hair.

"Ah, well, in that case-"

"Thank you, Henry. You can go now," Ellen said, good-naturedly.

"Yes ma'am." He flashed another smile and executed a little vaudeville shuffle out the door.

"He's right Ellen, you've created some really amazing stuff here."

"We've created, Denise. Hold still... okay, turn around now." She tugged, and arranged her handiwork with a critical eye, tilting her head and frowning with each adjustment.

"If you call being a manikin a creative act, then okay, we've done it. But we both know who has the smarts in this department." She stepped down from the box at Ellen's signal, and stood still while the pieces were marked and unpinned from her figure. The electric buzz, which, when first working with Ellen, had startled and puzzled her, returned with delicious familiarity as Ellen's busy hands smoothed the material over her hips and backside, marking seams and alterations.

"Okay, you can slip that off now- carefully." Ellen lifted the tape measure from around her neck and placed it in the big sewing basket along with her scissors, chalk and pins. "I need a drink or something, how about you?"

Denise placed the dress carefully on their work table and turned, leaning on the heel of her hand, her half-slip pulled taut across one bent leg. "I could use something." She answered slowly, twisting a lock of the wavy brown hair.

"Uuuhm, like what, Coke? Or maybe a beer? I think I feel like a nice cold beer. Do you think there's any around here?"

"I'm sure your friend Henry would know if there was." Denise straightened and moved with elaborate casualness toward her.

"Good thinking. I'll go and check." She headed for the door, pausing outside and leaning back in with one hand on the frame. "Will Coke do if he hasn't got any?"

"Coke's fine," Denise nodded, touching her lips tentatively as Ellen smiled and disappeared.

*****

"Jesus Christ, Tony, I'm starting to look like Bela Lugosi here!" Milo complained, straightening the bib that protected his suit.

"It's Antonio, if you please, and this makeup is exactly what's needed for the stage lighting."

"Bela Lugosi didn't have a moustache, Mr. Braithwaite," Henry remarked, straight faced.

Milo scowled at himself in the mirror, shooting a dark look at Henry and silently questioning the funeral director's sincerity.

"Besides," Antonio continued tautly, "this is precisely the reason for dress rehearsals. To expose weaknesses and deficiencies so that they may be fine tuned before the actual performance."

"We do this all the time at the home," Henry added, drawing a frown from his employer and a bleak stare from Milo.

"Are you saying you practice, on your clients?"

"Well uuh..."

"He's not saying that at all," Antonio growled, firing darts at his aide. "Someone wants you Mr. Matute." He stated, relieved for the interruption.

Henry turned to see Ellen beckoning him from the doorway, and sharing his employer's emotion, skipped quickly from the room.

"What about this hair style," Milo grunted, pursuing another avenue of dissatisfaction.

"Hair is the province of that Serge person," Antonio answered, stiffly, "not mine."

"Great."

*****

Shelia sat on a crate in the dressing room corridor listening to an encouraging pep talk from her husband and Amanda Wells, her script crumpled in her trembling fingers.

"Sheel, c'mon baby, it's nothing to be frightened about," William steadied her with a pair of firm hands on her shoulders, "a little stage fright is only natural. We're all nervous, right Amanda?"

"I know I am," Amanda lied, easily.

"You see? C'mon now, we're all friends and neighbours here; there's nothing to be upset about. You seemed fine at home the other night."

"It's just that there's so many lines- two characters... I can't keep them straight." She sobbed, dry-eyed.

William sat beside her, his arm around her shoulder, trying to generate inspiration through vigorous rocking. "Just worry about one character at a time- one act at a time. You're making it more difficult than it is."

"I'm worried about Candy, too." This time a tiny tear accented the sob.

"Oh for cripe's sake Shelia, we've been all through this." He dropped his arm, letting his loose fists flop on his thighs. "Mary is looking after Candy. Mary has done this many times before. Candy likes Mary. They are both fine." He intoned, frustration and anger simmering just below the surface. "Can you do something Amanda- anything- please?" He got up and stomped off shaking his head.

"I think Bill's right Shelia, you work yourself up over nothing. You've got to just let go a little- loosen up." Amanda looked around wearily, hoping for an opportunity to beg off babysitting this ditzy woman. "Look, I have to get to wardrobe... are uh- are you going to be okay?"

Shelia sniffed and nodded. "I think so. Thanks Amanda, it's just that I'm not used to things like this, I-"

"Listen, forget the character, just play yourself. The first two acts are no different from our regular council meetings. All you have to remember is that, instead of Shelia, your name is Miriam. That's not a big stretch, is it?"

"Gee," she looked up, blinking her wet eyes, "I never thought of it that way. It's true, isn't it, except for the words, it's just like our council meetings?"

Amanda gave her a deprecating smile, "There you go." What a piece of work this dame is!