‘
What
is the matter with Mary Jane?’ at the talent contest the first year at Waverley Hall. I did it complete with ghastly little actions, hands on hips, shaking my head, pulling faces. It was enough to make a sane person vomit but I got loud applause. Biddy was in seventh heaven. She’d always longed for a child like Shirley Temple. She had my wispy hair permed into a grisly approximation of those abundant curls and encouraged me to perform when I was even shyer than my father.
The second Waverley Hall holiday I knew the whole of ‘The King’s Breakfast’ by heart. Oh dear, I’ve not looked at it since but I’ve just gone over it in my head and I still know every awful line.
I was scared of performing it in public in front of everyone. I fidgeted nervously throughout our evening meal, going over the poem again and again in my head. I’d got sunburned on the beach and I felt hot and headachy. I gulped down glass after glass of cold water. A big mistake.
Straight after dinner the child performers in the talent contest were herded off to the little room behind the stage in the ballroom. I didn’t get a chance to visit the lavatory. I soon realized I badly needed to go. I was far too shy to tell anyone. I didn’t have enough gumption to go off and find a loo myself. I just sat with my legs crossed, praying.
Will Tull had decided to put me on almost at the end because I’d been such a success the year before. I waited and waited and waited, in agony. Then at long long last it was my turn. I shuffled on stage, stood there with clasped hands, head up, chest out, toes slightly turned out, in perfect elocution class stance.
‘“The King’s Breakfast” by A. A. Milne,’ I announced clearly.
A little ripple of amusement and anticipation passed through the audience. I relaxed. An even worse mistake.
‘The King asked
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
“Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?”’
I declared, as I felt a hot trickle seep down my legs into my snowy white socks.
I didn’t stop. I didn’t run off stage. I carried on reciting as a puddle spread around my feet. I said the last line, bowed, and then shuffled off in soggy despair.
Biddy came and found me and carted me off to get changed. I wept. She told me that no one had even noticed, which was an obvious lie. I’d seen Will Tull follow me on stage with a
bucket and mop
. Biddy switched tack and said everyone simply felt sorry for me. I’d heard the ‘aaahs’ myself, so knew this was partly true, but I’d also heard the sniggers from the other children. I was sure they’d make my life hell the next morning at breakfast.
‘We have to go
home
! Please please please let’s go home,’ I begged.
Biddy and Harry scoffed at me.
‘But they’ll all tease me and laugh at me and call me names,’ I howled.
‘Don’t be so silly. They’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow,’ said Biddy.
This seemed to me nonsense. However, no one stared or whispered when we came down to breakfast the next morning. The children didn’t breathe a word about it, not even when we were playing in the ping-pong room without adult supervision. I couldn’t understand it. Maybe Will Tull had scurried from room to room and implored everyone to be kind, though this seems highly unlikely. Maybe my mum was right and they really had forgotten. Hadn’t even noticed. Whatever.
We carried on our Clacton holiday as usual. We sat on the sands all morning, Biddy and Harry in deckchairs, me cross-legged on a towel, reading or colouring or making sand palaces for my pink plastic children. We had our favourite spot, reasonably near the pier so we could stretch our legs and visit the lavatories, but not so near that the strange, dank, rotting-seaweed, under-the-pier smell tainted our squash and sandwiches.
There were amusement arcades on the pier. I didn’t care for them particularly, but Harry loved pinball and Biddy proved
What
is the matter with Mary Jane?’ at the talent contest the first year at Waverley Hall. I did it complete with ghastly little actions, hands on hips, shaking my head, pulling faces. It was enough to make a sane person vomit but I got loud applause. Biddy was in seventh heaven. She’d always longed for a child like Shirley Temple. She had my wispy hair permed into a grisly approximation of those abundant curls and encouraged me to perform when I was even shyer than my father.
The second Waverley Hall holiday I knew the whole of ‘The King’s Breakfast’ by heart. Oh dear, I’ve not looked at it since but I’ve just gone over it in my head and I still know every awful line.
I was scared of performing it in public in front of everyone. I fidgeted nervously throughout our evening meal, going over the poem again and again in my head. I’d got sunburned on the beach and I felt hot and headachy. I gulped down glass after glass of cold water. A big mistake.
Straight after dinner the child performers in the talent contest were herded off to the little room behind the stage in the ballroom. I didn’t get a chance to visit the lavatory. I soon realized I badly needed to go. I was far too shy to tell anyone. I didn’t have enough gumption to go off and find a loo myself. I just sat with my legs crossed, praying.
Will Tull had decided to put me on almost at the end because I’d been such a success the year before. I waited and waited and waited, in agony. Then at long long last it was my turn. I shuffled on stage, stood there with clasped hands, head up, chest out, toes slightly turned out, in perfect elocution class stance.
‘“The King’s Breakfast” by A. A. Milne,’ I announced clearly.
A little ripple of amusement and anticipation passed through the audience. I relaxed. An even worse mistake.
‘The King asked
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
“Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?”’
I declared, as I felt a hot trickle seep down my legs into my snowy white socks.
I didn’t stop. I didn’t run off stage. I carried on reciting as a puddle spread around my feet. I said the last line, bowed, and then shuffled off in soggy despair.
Biddy came and found me and carted me off to get changed. I wept. She told me that no one had even noticed, which was an obvious lie. I’d seen Will Tull follow me on stage with a
bucket and mop
. Biddy switched tack and said everyone simply felt sorry for me. I’d heard the ‘aaahs’ myself, so knew this was partly true, but I’d also heard the sniggers from the other children. I was sure they’d make my life hell the next morning at breakfast.
‘We have to go
home
! Please please please let’s go home,’ I begged.
Biddy and Harry scoffed at me.
‘But they’ll all tease me and laugh at me and call me names,’ I howled.
‘Don’t be so silly. They’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow,’ said Biddy.
This seemed to me nonsense. However, no one stared or whispered when we came down to breakfast the next morning. The children didn’t breathe a word about it, not even when we were playing in the ping-pong room without adult supervision. I couldn’t understand it. Maybe Will Tull had scurried from room to room and implored everyone to be kind, though this seems highly unlikely. Maybe my mum was right and they really had forgotten. Hadn’t even noticed. Whatever.
We carried on our Clacton holiday as usual. We sat on the sands all morning, Biddy and Harry in deckchairs, me cross-legged on a towel, reading or colouring or making sand palaces for my pink plastic children. We had our favourite spot, reasonably near the pier so we could stretch our legs and visit the lavatories, but not so near that the strange, dank, rotting-seaweed, under-the-pier smell tainted our squash and sandwiches.
There were amusement arcades on the pier. I didn’t care for them particularly, but Harry loved pinball and Biddy proved
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