Far To Go. Noel Streatfeild
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spent her days. She was a wonderfully good needlewoman and so was in charge of the wardrobe, though she played character parts or walked on when needed. Sarah had taken Margaret under her wing when she had joined the company four months before and, in innumerable ways, had not only seen after her but, when necessary, fought for her welfare. It was Sarah Beamish who saw she attended school. Her fat little figure had waddled into Ida Fortescue’s – the leading lady and manageress – dressing-tent a few nights after Little Lord Fauntleroy had become part of the repertory. Ida was taking off her make-up and did not want to be interrupted.
‘Well?’
‘Young Margaret should go to school starting Monday,’ said Sarah.
The question of sending Margaret to school had been discussed by the Fortescues and they had decided against it. In the company there was an actress so short she was almost a dwarf who had played children when they were needed. She had no talent so the Fortescues had decided, as soon as the summer was over, to dismiss her and give the parts to Margaret, which would mean she would be needed for morning rehearsals. Now what was Sarah Beamish sticking her nose in for? However, Sarah was too valuable in the wardrobe to be treated rudely. Ida spoke as though her tongue had been covered with cream.
‘Do you not think that a long role every night is enough for her? She is only just eleven.’
Sarah was not fooled by a creamy voice. ‘No, I do not. I think she should have proper schooling like any ordinary child. Besides it’s the law. Very strict they say they are now about children’s schooling.’
This was a brave statement from Sarah, who had not the faintest idea about school and the law. When she had grown up some children were still working in the cotton mills. She had herself for a year when her father had been out of work through an injury, but times were changing fast and now, with the coming of a new century, life was much easier for children. Even girls going into service in private houses seldom went until they were twelve.
As a result of what Sarah had said, Margaret had been sent to the village school. Ida Fortescue had settled the argument.
‘What does it matter, Mr Fortescue?’ she had said to her husband. ‘It’s just coming to the autumn. If we can get an audience in our tent for Fauntleroy until October we’ve done grand. Come mid-October we have to move under a roof anyway, and what school there may be there we can wait and see.’
As she said this she winked to show her husband there would be no schooling for Margaret if she was needed for theatre work.
Now it was late September, the last week when they could use a tent. It was pleasant weather with just a nip in the air to remind everyone summer was coming to an end and, in Margaret’s case, to put a skip into her walk and make her hum a tuneless song to the words, ‘I do like being me.’
Sarah heard her coming. ‘Is that you, Margaret?’ she called.
Margaret ran the last few steps and flung her arms round Sarah’s neck. ‘Of course it’s me, who else would it be? You know everybody is having a nap. Were you wanting me? What can I do?’
Sarah had a small kettle which was heated by a spirit lamp. Now she lit it.
‘We’ll have a cup of tea first, and then I’ve something I want to talk to you about.’
Margaret groaned. ‘How mean! Why not talk first and then tea? You know how I hate waiting to hear things. Hannah, the one who brought me up …’
Sarah stopped her. ‘Now don’t start on about how the rector found you and Hannah brought you up. I know that.’ Her voice softened. ‘Though very nicely that Hannah managed, I will say, but now we’ve other things to talk of. Open my cotton box and you’ll find a bag of sweet biscuits.’
It seemed to Margaret an intolerable time before the kettle boiled, but really it was only a matter of minutes before she and Sarah were drinking tea and eating the fancy biscuits. Margaret had grown to know Mrs Beamish, as she respectfully called her, too well in the past four months to hope to hurry her but she watched her, quivering like an eager puppy, and at last she had her reward. Sarah felt in her apron pocket and brought out a piece cut from a newspaper.
‘I haven’t talked about your future, Margaret, because there has not been any cause.’
‘There isn’t now,’ said Margaret.
Sarah went on as if she had not been interrupted. ‘That’s as may be, but some thinks different.’
‘But I know we’re leaving this tent next week and it’s being stored in a barn until next spring. Mr Fortescue has booked a hall where we move to and we play repertory until Christmas when we put on pantomime, and I shall be a little white cat and …’
Sarah stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘I am aware of what is planned, but maybe others have plans too.’ Her tone changed. ‘Listen, dear, I’m not the only one who has been watching you. I know you are not one to let compliments go to your head, but since you took on playing Little Lord Fauntleroy you’ve shown yourself an actress. Mind you, talent in a child does not mean talent when you’ve grown up, but I am not the only one in the company who has real hope for you.’ Sarah paused and unfolded the piece of paper. ‘So when I saw this I said to myself: “Sarah Beamish, it’s meant.”’
Margaret held out her hand. ‘What is it, Mrs Beamish? Show me.’
Sarah passed her a cutting from a theatrical paper called The Era. Margaret unfolded it and read: ‘Wanted: A clever girl to appear eleven. Appointment, write to Thomas Smith, The Dolphin Theatre.’
‘Where is The Dolphin Theatre?’
Sarah smiled at such ignorance. ‘In London, of course. It belongs to Sir John Teaser. He’s what they call a theatrical manager, which means he owns his own company and acts as well. Very important man, Sir John is. Why, when he went to Buckingham Palace for Queen Victoria to make him a knight, hundreds turned out to see him in his carriage drive through the palace gates.’
Margaret reread the cutting from the paper. ‘I shouldn’t think he would see me. I mean, London must be full of child actresses.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I thought that. A big man like Sir John Teaser would only have to raise a little finger and he’d have his theatre crammed full of clever little girls, all frills and curls with their mothers pushing them on. So, I say to myself, he’s looking for something different and maybe the answer is Margaret. She is eleven, not just appearing to be, and she’s clever, sometimes too clever by half.’
Margaret felt a glow of excitement; it was a very small glow, more like a spark, which could start a fire.
‘Just in case I was the girl he wants, how do I get to London because I haven’t any money, at least almost none because Mr Fortescue engaged me as a student all found, which doesn’t mean more than my bed and food and a few clothes like the frocks you’ve made me and …’
‘How you do run on!’ said Sarah. ‘You might give me credit for a little sense. Of course I know you haven’t any money, but I have my savings, not much in this company, of course, but I used to earn more …’
Margaret stopped her, her eyes flashing as though a light was shining behind them. She threw her chin into the air. ‘Thank you very much but I don’t want charity. You forget I was found in a basket with three of everything all of the very best quality and—’
Sarah stopped her.
‘I know. Now calm down, do. I wasn’t offering to give you the money, only lend it. You can pay me back when you’re earning. Now, listen. I’ve got a sister called Louisa but we just call her Lou. She works in a theatre wardrobe. Well, her theatre puts on pantomime at Christmas, tremendous big shows they are with all of two hundred artistes. So well before Christmas the wardrobe mistress hires dozens of extra staff to work on the panto dresses. Many’s the time Lou has written to me, begging me to work with her over Christmas so we could see each other. Each year I mean to go, but somehow I never have. But this year I’m going. I