Snowflakes Over Bay Tree Terrace (Willowbury) Page 5

  Wandering upstairs, she didn’t feel quite like settling into her evening’s marking just yet; not on a stomach full of macaroni cheese, anyway. Suddenly curious to investigate the only place in the house she’d not fully checked out yet, she stepped down the landing until she was standing underneath the hatch to the house’s loft space. As a child, the loft had always fascinated Florence, even though she’d never been allowed up there. ‘Imagine if you put a foot down and stepped through the ceiling!’ Aunt Elsie always said when Florence had mithered her to go up.

  Reaching up to grab the cord that would pull the counterweighted steps down from the loft, Florence felt in her back pocket for her phone, so she could use it as a torch. The blast of cooler air from the roof space as the hatch came down to reveal the concertinaed steps to the loft cautioned her that she should probably check out the roof insulation at some point, too. But tonight she just wanted to take a quick look inside the space she was never allowed to go into when she’d been Aunt Elsie’s guest.

  As she ascended the steps, she shone the phone torch around her, trying to get a sense of the loft space. Perhaps one day it would be nice to use the space for something other than storage, if she could afford to pay for the conversion. She noticed there was a pile of cardboard boxes off to one corner, but before she could investigate further, her phone rang. Swiping the screen to talk to her mum, who was just calling to check in, she forgot all about the contents of the loft as she headed back downstairs.

  10

  Sam drove back home after his shift finished in the late afternoon and felt relieved that, for once, the kitchen cupboards were going to be full. He was ravenous, as he often was when he returned to base, and he was looking forward to a decentish dinner, a couple of beers and an early night. It took him a few days to adjust back to working daylight hours, but he finally felt as though he was coming out of the other side of the night-shift pattern he’d been working.

  He loved his job, despite the interminable waiting around that often seemed to follow a callout. He wasn’t fazed by having to carry casualties, having gained an awful lot of his flying hours ferrying injured soldiers on and off ships. It was easy to divorce himself from the often upsetting realities of the job by focusing on the technicalities; the many checks that had to be carried out before he was able to take-off; the permissions that must be gained in order to leave the ground. There was a kind of elegance, a balance to it that enabled him to keep a clear head despite what may have been going on behind him in the treatment area of the helicopter. That wasn’t to say that he was cold-hearted; seeing broken bodies being loaded into the back, especially when they belonged to children or the equally vulnerable, was harrowing, but, much like the medics themselves, or the other emergency staff that attended, it was essential to protect his own mental health in these high-stress situations; the processing always came later.

  As he went through the post that had been delivered earlier that day, he laid aside the letters for Aidan to peruse when he surfaced. Since Sam had spoken to him about the late-night guitar playing, Aidan had, mercifully, remembered to plug in his expensive new headphones. At least Florence wouldn’t be storming around complaining again. Although, Sam thought unguardedly, he’d quite like to see her again; if not within the context of a neighbourly complaint.

  He wondered how she was settling into her new school. He didn’t know where she was teaching, but as he’d landed the air ambulance on the field behind the newly built Willowbury Academy, thoughts of her had crossed his mind. He quite liked talking to people when he had to land in a more public place, and the Willowbury students had seemed polite and well mannered, if a little excited about having the helicopter landing on their football pitch. It was funny, he thought; he’d caught sight of a blonde teacher with a ponytail about a hundred yards from where he’d landed, but she was too far away to recognise. He wondered if it had actually been Florence. Willowbury Academy was certainly convenient for her house, although he did wonder about living and working in the same town; what teacher would want to be sprung doing something silly by their own students?

  Among the letters and junk mail, Sam noticed a brightly coloured flyer advertising auditions for something called the annual Willowbury Dramatical Spectacular. Glancing at it, he shook his head. He was no actor. But, on further inspection, it seemed that the proceeds from the performances would be going to a charity that he knew very well; the self-same charity that he worked for. Although he absolutely wasn’t going to get roped into doing any acting, he did wonder if perhaps he could help to publicise it in other ways. The Somerset Air Ambulance, like all of the UK’s air ambulance services, was totally funded by donations from the public to enable it to run. Perhaps he could get some flyers and magazines for them to hand out with the tickets? It would give him an excuse to get involved with the community without having to dive straight in and get caught up in the details of staging the production.

  Making a mental note to grab some of the promotional materials from the base the next time he was at work, he wandered through to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Since the online shopping order had arrived during the afternoon, Aidan had put it all away, and Sam was surprised to note that he’d actually arranged the fridge rather well. It was a far cry from the early days, when he’d be unable to sustain his attention on even the simplest of tasks. But then, a lot had changed since the early days, Sam thought, and even more since the time before. But there was no sense in focusing on that; what was done was done. It was all about going forward now.

  With that sobering thought suddenly uppermost in his mind, Sam pulled out a fairly decent looking pre-prepared shepherd’s pie from the fridge, along with a bottle of lager to drink while it was baking, and settled down at the kitchen counter to go through the rest of the post.

  As he was carelessly opening envelopes and taking in their contents, he realised he’d opened one of Aidan’s in error. It was a letter from the local health authority, and, despite himself, Sam found his eyes scanning it. Aidan was under the care of the GP but had been referred to a counselling service for some cognitive behavioural therapy. This was the most recent in a line of talking therapies, intended to complement the medication that Aidan would, in all likelihood, be on for the rest of his life. Sam noticed that the date was for next Friday. Scrawling a hasty note on the envelope, he placed it in Aidan’s pile of mail. With Aidan, routine was key, and Sam intended to make sure he kept to it as much as possible. When he didn’t, life became a whole lot more complicated, and complications were something neither Sam nor Aidan needed any more of after the last two harrowing years.

  11

  The Saturday of the auditions for the Willowbury Dramatical Spectacular dawned bright and chilly, and as Florence threw on jeans and her favourite cosy jumper, she felt a thrill of excitement at the turn in the weather. Though she loved the summer, what she really adored was the autumn frost; the crispness of an early morning where the mist rolled over the crystalline blades of grass in the fields and the nip of the cold against noses and fingertips was energising. It helped that the run-up to Christmas was always the best term, as well; the students were madly keen to show some seasonal spirit, even if the requests to watch films in class tended to start in mid-November.

  This morning in late October seemed to herald the change from the Indian summer of recent weeks to more usual autumn weather. As she opened her bedroom curtains and looked out into her back garden, Florence’s gaze was drawn to the sheep grazing at the top of the hills that her house backed onto, and there was a cooler scent in the air when she threw open her window. Having spent a fair amount of her life in Yorkshire, she wasn’t afraid of cold weather.

  A ping from her mobile phone on the bedside table drew her attention away from the early-morning rural scene outside her window, and she padded across to check it. It was a message from Josie, just double-checking she was still OK to help out with the auditions. Texting back a quick affirmative, Florence wandered down to the kitch
en to grab some breakfast and a coffee.

  Willowbury had its fair share of eccentric and unusual characters, and she wondered how many would show up to audition for Josie’s revamped play. One thing was certain; it was going to make for an interesting morning.

  ‘I’m not sure about this, Josie,’ Florence said, looking in trepidation at the musty hall, the aged upright piano tucked in the corner, and the rickety-looking stage area at the front. ‘I mean, I know the play all right, but I haven’t been on stage since I was a sheep in the school nativity play!’

  ‘Oh, it’ll come back to you,’ Josie said, unconcerned. ‘It’s just like riding a bike.’

  ‘I broke my arm riding a bike when I was six,’ Florence muttered, wondering if it was too late to back out. ‘That stage looks like it’s seen better days, too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Josie pulled open one of the dusty curtains that blocked out the light from the hall. ‘Anyway, this is just a temporary rehearsal space. The actual production’s going to be in the visitors’ centre on the priory site, remember?’

  ‘If they finish it on time,’ Florence replied. ‘At this rate, we could be performing in the ruined nave of the priory on the shortest day of the year!’ She’d been intrigued when she’d taken ownership of Aunt Elsie’s house to see that the priory, that had been broken apart during the Reformation, had finally been acquired by the National Trust, after much toing and froing on the economic viability of such a project. It had been something that the local MP, Charlie Thorpe, had been keen to push through during his first term of office, and there had been much rejoicing when it had been achieved with a combination of local petitioning of the trust and his intervention on the town’s behalf. Now to be saved in perpetuity, like all buildings taken on by the National Trust, no time had been wasted in earmarking a clear patch of ground on the site to build a visitors’ centre, which would also double as a performance space for community projects. The building was nearly finished, but there were jobs left to do before it could be signed off. The performance would be the debut show, and so Josie was keen to involve as much of the community as possible.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Josie replied, her optimism seemingly undentable.

  ‘I’m serious, though,’ Florence said. ‘I’m happy to stand in and read some parts, but I’m strictly behind the scenes when you’ve got everyone you need on board. I’ll paint as much scenery as you want, but I’m not going on stage.’

  ‘Look,’ Josie said patiently, ‘I know you don’t want to be part of the cast, but I need a few people to show willing for the others. This town is full of wannabe acting divas, I’m sure, but I need someone who actually knows their stuff to make the others raise their game. So, what do you reckon? Humour me. Do it for a mate?’

  Josie, once she got into full-on persuasive mode, was irresistible.

  ‘I’ll read some lines,’ Florence conceded, ‘but only until someone better comes along.’

  As if on cue, the door to the hall opened and a stocky, muscular, sandy-haired man walked confidently through. Looking to be in his mid-thirties, he wore a broad smile and a collarless linen shirt, and had a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerily as he approached where Josie and Florence were setting up some chairs for the audition space. ‘Am I in the right place? I’m here for the casting.’

  Florence chanced a look in Josie’s direction before watching her friend shake the man’s thrust-forward hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Josie replied. ‘I’m Josie Sellars, the director, and this is Florence Ashton.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ the man replied. Hesitating slightly, as if he expected recognition, he added somewhat regretfully afterward, ‘I’m Tom Sanderson.’

  Florence couldn’t help but notice the upward inflection as he announced his name. Perhaps they were in the presence of someone who she ought to recognise? Josie hadn’t mentioned anything about any thespians of note living in Willowbury, and, Florence reasoned, she hadn’t been living there long enough to find out for herself. Perhaps this guy had some sort of claim to fame?

  Josie, who was looking quizzical at the mention of his name, suddenly beamed. ‘Oh, of course. I remember you. Weren’t you on Britain’s Got Talent a few years back?’

  Tom looked pleased. ‘Yes, that’s right. Simon… you know, Simon Cowell, said I had great potential for the West End.’

  Florence wondered, in that case, why he was still lurking around Willowbury, if London had come calling. She only just stopped herself from asking before Tom cut back in.

  ‘Of course, an audition for RADA helped, but I was keen to explore my roots here, give something back to the community, so to speak.’

  Ah, that was more like it, Florence thought. She was finely tuned to blarney and excuses; she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes as a teacher if she hadn’t been able to suss out the truth from the convenient fibs, and it was clear to her that Tom’s story was perhaps hiding a subtler, less flattering truth. However, she didn’t think too much of it; after all, she’d be working behind the scenes on backstage details, and Josie, as director, would have to deal with actorly egos more than she would. And she’d never been a fan of TV talent shows.

  ‘So, Tom,’ Josie began, ‘as you know, we’re casting for the lead roles for Much Ado About Christmas today. It’s a mash-up of Much Ado About Nothing with some seasonal and local references, mostly told in updated English. Do you know the original play at all?’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ Tom replied portentously. ‘I played Claudio at university, but, as I’ve got older, I’ve a yen to play a more substantial role. Benedick, perhaps, or Don Pedro.’

  He obviously fancied himself as Kenneth Branagh in the making, Florence thought; all the way from his perfectly cultivated goatee (with a trace of ginger) to his designer brogues. What a pity he didn’t seem to have Branagh’s charisma.

  ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to read for Benedick this morning, and we’ll go from there.’ Josie looked down at her clipboard, where she had several copies of two of Benedick’s key speeches from the play. She passed both scenes to Tom. ‘Have a quiet read for a few minutes, and then feel free to present one of these to us when you’re ready.’

  Tom took the papers and squinted down at the small print. Florence surmised that reading glasses would have been his preference, but vanity had prevented him from bringing them to the audition.

  ‘And, Florence, once Tom’s ready, would you read Beatrice if needs be?’ Josie said, a mischievous look in her eye.

  ‘Sure,’ Florence muttered. ‘So long as you don’t expect me to actually act!’

  ‘Not fond of the stage?’ Tom interjected, glancing up from the script.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Florence replied. ‘But since I’ve taught this play to a lot of students over the years, I said I’d lend a hand.’

  ‘Oh, a valiant pedagogue!’ Tom chuckled. ‘How noble of you in this day and age. You have my sympathy.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for sympathy,’ Florence shot back just as quickly. ‘I love my job. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Tom replied. ‘After all, we need dedicated professionals.’

  Rather getting the feeling that she was being patronised, Florence looked back down at her copy of the script. Suddenly, she could think of far better things to be doing on a Saturday morning than standing in a damp-smelling village hall listening to would-be actors. But a promise was a promise.

  To her surprise, despite Tom’s pompous manner, he was actually quite a decent actor, and Florence found herself getting into the role of Beatrice as they played the first scene with the two of them baiting each other after Benedick and the other soldiers return from the ‘Christmas Shopping High Street Wars’. She could see how Tom could make a very good stab at the role, and that Josie, much to her own surprise, seemed to be thinking the same.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ Josie said as they got to the end of the scene. �
��That was great.’

  Tom bowed with only a trace of irony. ‘A pleasure.’ He looked at her expectantly, and this seemed to get Josie’s back up a little, despite his good performance.

  ‘I’ll be posting the cast choices on the Facebook page I’ve created for the production by the end of the day,’ Josie replied. ‘So be sure to check it out and see if you’ve made the cut.’

  ‘I shall do,’ Tom replied, obviously nonplussed by this abrupt dismissal. He glanced from Josie to Florence and back again. ‘I look forward to working with you, and bringing this production to life.’ And with that, he walked out of the door.

  As the rickety door to the hall banged closed behind him, Florence burst out laughing. ‘Is he for real?’

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ Josie replied. ‘But, the thing is, he may very well be the best we’ve got.’ She looked speculatively at Florence. ‘And I have to say, your reaction to him worked brilliantly. Are you sure I can’t twist your arm to be onstage rather than behind the scenes?’

  ‘Nope,’ Florence said firmly. ‘And I don’t care how well it worked with Tom – I’d throttle him for real if I had to play Beatrice to his Benedick!’

  ‘The audience would love it,’ Josie said slyly.

  Florence, pretending to occupy herself with reading the script, chose to ignore her.

  At five to twelve and after innumerable auditions, which included six main speaking roles and a handful of more minor ones, Josie and Florence were just about to call it a day. The auditions had ranged from the wonderful – a young drama student doing her A levels at nearby Stavenham Sixth Form College, who would be absolutely perfect as the play’s version of Hero – to the frankly appalling efforts of the handsome but rather wooden mobile blacksmith, whose anvil would have had more charisma than he did. However, Josie seemed confident that she could cast all roles successfully by the time Florence’s stomach started rumbling for lunch, except for the key role of Beatrice, the play’s quick-witted heroine.