it?
Lottie tilted her chin and challenged Miranda’s stare. “It’s none of your business which groupwe’re in, Miranda. And we’re certainly not going to tell you.”
Miranda tossed her head like a mare in a temper. Hannah could almost see her stamp her hoof. “Well, I wouldn’t bother entering the festival if I were you. Our group’s won it for the last three years and my mum’s written the best play ever this year, hasn’t she, Ems? And she’s got her friend who’s a professional West End director to help direct it. No one else stands a chance.”
“Really?” said Lottie. “Well, you’d better prepare for a disappointment, because you might just have some competition this time.”
Miranda smirked. “I very much doubt that, Charlotte. I can’t imagine that our group is going to be seriously challenged by you two losers and a bunch of farm animals.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and turned back to the magazine.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” retorted Lottie. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
Chapter Nine
Curtains
When Hannah got to the theatre on Saturday morning Lottie was already there, perched on an upturned barrel of Cooper’s Dairy Ointment (The Number One Udder Cream), drawing in her red notebook. Shafts of sunlight poured through the gaps in the walls and illuminated her work.
“You’re early!”
“I know,” said Lottie. “My mum was still asleep and it’s so boring at home. What’s udder cream? It sounds really gross.”
“There’s nothing wrong with udder cream. It’s what you rub on cows’ udders if they get sore when they’re being milked or when their calves are sucking from them.”
“Cow moisturiser?”
“Exactly. Also a cure for every human skin problem, according to my dad. What are you drawing?”
Lottie held out her notebook. “An idea I had for the queen’s costume.”
“Wow,” said Hannah. “That’s amazing.”
She took the notebook reverently. The page was filled with a detailed design of a full-length gown:a riot of clashing colours and patterns, frills, bows and lace.
“I thought it would suit the queen’s over-the-top personality,” said Lottie. “She has no taste so she just goes for the gaudiest design possible and she thinks she looks great.”
Hannah stroked the paper. She imagined how it would feel to act Queen Matilda in that dress: the way she would draw herself to her fullest height; the arrogant tilt of her head as she looked down her nose at the poor maid; the rustle of silk as she paraded across the stage.
“It’s fabulous,” she said. “Are you really going to make it?”
“Sure. We’ll need to go to jumble sales and get material, then I’ll use Mum’s sewing machine.”
“It’ll be amazing.” Hannah hesitated. “Have you thought about costume changes, though? We’re going to have to change really quickly, with just the two of us doing all the parts.”
“Don’t worry,” said Lottie. “I’ll use Velcro. So what’s in that file?”
Hannah had read in one of her mother’s theatre books that the director of a play keeps a file of notes about every aspect of the play she is working on. So she had gone to the newsagent’s after school yesterday and spent half of Granny’s Christmas money on a shiny purple ring binder, a pad of paper and some brightly coloured dividers. She had labelled each section: Costumes, Props, Scenery, Hair and Make-Up. In the last section, labelled The Play, she hadfiled a photocopy of the script, single-sided to keep the facing pages blank for her director’s notes on the actors’ movements and gestures.
Lottie nodded in approval. “Cool. Let’s get started.”
They spent the morning making two tall frames out of fence posts. They nailed hessian sacking over them so they looked like huge artists’ canvases. Then they wedged the frames vertically on either side of the shed, from floor to ceiling, to make two side walls for the front
Lottie tilted her chin and challenged Miranda’s stare. “It’s none of your business which groupwe’re in, Miranda. And we’re certainly not going to tell you.”
Miranda tossed her head like a mare in a temper. Hannah could almost see her stamp her hoof. “Well, I wouldn’t bother entering the festival if I were you. Our group’s won it for the last three years and my mum’s written the best play ever this year, hasn’t she, Ems? And she’s got her friend who’s a professional West End director to help direct it. No one else stands a chance.”
“Really?” said Lottie. “Well, you’d better prepare for a disappointment, because you might just have some competition this time.”
Miranda smirked. “I very much doubt that, Charlotte. I can’t imagine that our group is going to be seriously challenged by you two losers and a bunch of farm animals.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and turned back to the magazine.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” retorted Lottie. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
Chapter Nine
Curtains
When Hannah got to the theatre on Saturday morning Lottie was already there, perched on an upturned barrel of Cooper’s Dairy Ointment (The Number One Udder Cream), drawing in her red notebook. Shafts of sunlight poured through the gaps in the walls and illuminated her work.
“You’re early!”
“I know,” said Lottie. “My mum was still asleep and it’s so boring at home. What’s udder cream? It sounds really gross.”
“There’s nothing wrong with udder cream. It’s what you rub on cows’ udders if they get sore when they’re being milked or when their calves are sucking from them.”
“Cow moisturiser?”
“Exactly. Also a cure for every human skin problem, according to my dad. What are you drawing?”
Lottie held out her notebook. “An idea I had for the queen’s costume.”
“Wow,” said Hannah. “That’s amazing.”
She took the notebook reverently. The page was filled with a detailed design of a full-length gown:a riot of clashing colours and patterns, frills, bows and lace.
“I thought it would suit the queen’s over-the-top personality,” said Lottie. “She has no taste so she just goes for the gaudiest design possible and she thinks she looks great.”
Hannah stroked the paper. She imagined how it would feel to act Queen Matilda in that dress: the way she would draw herself to her fullest height; the arrogant tilt of her head as she looked down her nose at the poor maid; the rustle of silk as she paraded across the stage.
“It’s fabulous,” she said. “Are you really going to make it?”
“Sure. We’ll need to go to jumble sales and get material, then I’ll use Mum’s sewing machine.”
“It’ll be amazing.” Hannah hesitated. “Have you thought about costume changes, though? We’re going to have to change really quickly, with just the two of us doing all the parts.”
“Don’t worry,” said Lottie. “I’ll use Velcro. So what’s in that file?”
Hannah had read in one of her mother’s theatre books that the director of a play keeps a file of notes about every aspect of the play she is working on. So she had gone to the newsagent’s after school yesterday and spent half of Granny’s Christmas money on a shiny purple ring binder, a pad of paper and some brightly coloured dividers. She had labelled each section: Costumes, Props, Scenery, Hair and Make-Up. In the last section, labelled The Play, she hadfiled a photocopy of the script, single-sided to keep the facing pages blank for her director’s notes on the actors’ movements and gestures.
Lottie nodded in approval. “Cool. Let’s get started.”
They spent the morning making two tall frames out of fence posts. They nailed hessian sacking over them so they looked like huge artists’ canvases. Then they wedged the frames vertically on either side of the shed, from floor to ceiling, to make two side walls for the front
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