Theatre Shoes by Noel Streatfeild Page A

dashed across to Hannah. He was so excited his words fell over each other.
    â€œDo you suppose you could earn money as an actor, being a cat or a dog?”
    Hannah was still breathless from the escalator. She spoke in a puffy sort of voice.
    â€œI should hope not indeed. Making fun of poor dumb creatures! They know it isn’t right to be made a show of even if we don’t.”
    Mark bounced back to Sorrel.
    â€œDo you think I could be a cat or a dog, or, best of all, a bear? If I could be a bear I wouldn’t mind a bit about going on the stage.”
    â€œBut you’ve got to mind,” said Sorrel anxiously. “You know what I told you last night. It’s only till you’re eleven. Oh, Mark, you won’t get liking it, will you? It will be simply frightful for Daddy when he comes back if he finds you aren’t going into the Navy.”
    Holly was still examining the picture.
    â€œYou said that I couldn’t be an actress like grandmother until I was twelve. But these little girls aren’t twelve. Lots of them are only about six.”
    Sorrel and Mark knelt on the bench and had another look at the picture.
    â€œIt’s absolutely true,” Sorrel agreed. She laid a finger first on one child’s portrait and then on another’s. “This one is tiny and so is this one and so’s this.”
    They were startled to feel hands on their shoulders. They turned round and found themselves looking at an oldish lady.
    Madame Fidolia was, the children thought, a queer-looking lady. She had hair that had once been black but was now mostly grey, parted in the middle and dragged very smoothly into a bun on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a black silk dress that looked as though it came out of a history book, for it had a tight stiff bodice and full skirts. Round her shoulders was a cerise shawl. She leant on a tall black stick. But the oddest thing about her was the way she was finished off, as it were, for on her feet were pink ballet shoes, which are the last things you expect to see on the feet of an oldish lady. She gave a gesture with one hand, which, without words, said clearly, “Stand up.” The children slid off the bench and stood in front of her. Her voice was deep with a slightly foreign accent.
    â€œHow do you do? So you are the Warren children.”
    Mark’s head shot up.
    â€œNo, we’re not. Our name is Forbes.”
    Madame Fidolia looked at Mark with interest.
    â€œYou don’t wish to be a Warren. Most children would envy you.”
    Sorrel was afraid Mark might be rude, so she answered for him.
    â€œOur father is a sailor. Our great-grandfather was an admiral, and Mark’s going to be an admiral too. At least, we hope he is, but, of course, it’s not easy to be an admiral.”
    Madame Fidolia was looking at the picture behind them.
    â€œYou three remind me of three little pupils that came to me many years ago. This picture you were looking at was the first play in which they appeared. It was a special matinée of ‘The Blue Bird.’ You’ve read ‘The Blue Bird,’ I suppose?”
    Sorrel could tell from Madame Fidolia’s voice that they ought to have read it, so she answered apologetically:
    â€œI’m afraid we haven’t. It wasn’t in our grandfather’s house.”
    Madame Fidolia laid a finger over the picture of the boy in the satin suit.
    â€œThis is Pauline.” She touched the portrait of the child dressed as Red Riding Hood. “And this Petrova.”
    Her fingers searched amongst the small children and came to a stop against a tiny girl with her head all over curls. Her voice warmed. “And this is Posy.”
    The children knelt up on the bench to look again at the picture.
    â€œAre they sisters?” Sorrel asked.
    Madame smiled.
    â€œNot exactly. Adopted sisters, brought up by a guardian. You’ve seen Pauline, I expect, lots of times. Pauline