Rosie Dixon - Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions

“Stuff and nonsense!” storms Miss Murdstone. “We bought them new picks, didn’t we? How do they think we’re going to get the stone for the sculpture classes?”

“But we don’t have any sculpture classes.”

Miss Murdstone claps her hands together in exasperation. “That’s because we haven’t unearthed the right stone yet, isn’t it? Those lorries the girls load are taking the stone away to be tested.”

“Oh, I see,” says Miss Honeycomb. “I’ll tell the girls that. And I suppose the gravel and sand are being removed to clear the way for the mining operation?”

“Exactly!” says Miss Murdstone. “Don’t give any credence to these wild stories that are going around. The girls are only chained together to prevent them slipping down the side of the quarry.”

“Parents are going to be invited to the play, are they?” asks Penny.

“I thought I’d made that crystal clear,” says Miss Murdstone comtemptuously. “Furthermore I think it would be a good idea if we got some famous thespian who was a former pupil of the school to present a prize for the most promising actress.”

Miss Batson claps her hand to her mouth. “Ooh, wouldn’t it be funny if you won it, Headmistress—Oooh! Did you hear what I said? I’m sorry but with poor Miss Grimshaw still so poorly, I can’t help thinking of you as her natural successor.”

It is all I can do to stop bringing up my puffed rice but Miss Murdstone purrs like an armchair-bound moggy. “Thank you, Batson,” she says. “Your faith is touching. Now, can anyone think of an old girl who has made a name for herself on the stage?”

“Dame Sybil Thorndyke,” says Miss Batson eagerly.

“I meant an old girl of the school!” hisses Miss Murdstone.

There is a long silence before Miss Honeycomb puts down her petit point and speaks. “I can remember Muriel Chills.”

“Muriel Chills? That doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I think she’s now called Gloria Van de Bust. I read about her in the paper.”

“The striptease dancer who was prosecuted for causing unnecessary suffering to a boa constrictor!?” Miss Murdstone looks appropriately horrified. “We don’t want her!”

“There must be someone else,” says Miss Batson. “I can’t believe that in a school of this size—”

“Robin Brentford!” says Miss Marjoribanks, who has been helping Miss Wilton with her collection of pressed ferns.

“He wasn’t here, was he?” says Miss Batson.

“No, but Syllabub Brentford is his daughter, isn’t she?”

The thought makes me go all dithery. Robin Brentford whose gorgeous moustachioed mug has had pride of place in the drawer of my bedside table ever since I arrived at St Rodence. The man who made me forget Dr Eradlik of Casualty Ward , my favourite T.V. star. Can his flesh and blood actually reside under the same roof? I feel like rushing round and asking for an autograph.

“Who is Robin Brentford?” asks Miss Murdstone.

Stupid old crone! I could scratch her eyes out sometimes. “He’s the star of The Implausibles ,” I say.

“There’s no need to shout!” Miss Murdstone dabs at her eye with a handkerchief. “I’m not deaf, you know. What is The Implausibles ? Some kind of television programme?” The poor, deluded old fool does not realise that Robin Brentford is a star. He has opened more supermarkets than she has had hot dinners.

“I believe it attracts a large following,” says Miss Honeycomb. “The girls were most distressed when the television broke down just before last night’s show.”

“So that’s what the flames were,” says Miss Murdstone. “I thought one of the stills had gone up again.”

“Do you think we can get him down here?” says Miss Batson.

“I should think that there can be little doubt of that,” sniffs Miss Murdstone. “The question is, do we want him? He’s not exactly Sir John Geilgud.”

“On the other hand, he’s more like Sir John Gielgud than any one else we have,” says Miss Honeycomb.

“Uuum.” Miss Murdstone looks thoughtful. “I had never considered my work in terms of television. I suppose it could translate.”

“Oh yes. Provided the language is simple enough. I mean, look at—oh dear, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The man who wrote all those plays. Now what was it? Er—Hamlet. That was one of them. His name began with S. He was very well known. It’ll come to me in a minute. Anyway, his plays are translated into lots of languages.”

When you think that Miss Batson is the senior English mistress you can understand why nobody passed their ‘O’ Level examination. Apparently, only two girls spelt their name right at the top of the answer paper.

“I was not referring to a translation into another language but into another medium,” says Miss Murdstone patiently.

“Strindberg,” says Miss Honeycomb, suddenly.

Miss Batson shakes her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. It’s no good. I’ll get confused if I go on thinking about it.”

One great advantage of Miss Murdstone ressurrecting the school dramatics society is that she takes over responsibility for everything. Not only does she write the play and star in it but she also casts and directs the actresses. The rest of us run around in the background and try and render all assistance short of actual help. One thing that can be said about Miss Murdstone is that she is very professional. “A real pro” is how Miss Batson describes her, although I would not go as far as that.

“A real pain in the arse” is how Penny describes her and I think that this is nearer the truth. Most actresses, asked to appear on stage as if they had just water skied across the Indian Ocean, would be content to walk on carrying a pair of water skis—not Millicent Murdstone. Uh, uh! For this baby it has to be the real thing. Despite the fact that she has never been on a pair of skis in her life, Miss M. wants to glide onto the stage as if deposited by the fag end of a giant breaker.

After a lot of discussion, it is agreed that she will be towed on by an invisible rope and that a bucket of water will be swilled across the stage, coincident with her appearance, to simulate the wave. It works remarkably well in practice and I, personally, am grateful for any action to break up the unrelieved deadliness of the dialogue. Despite Miss Murdstone’s insistence on large parts for the girls there is little sign of this being carried through into the final draft of the play.

“But, Inspector!”, “Inspector, you don’t mean—?” “Can you explain what you mean, Inspector?” “I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, Inspector.” All these are examples of some of the more demanding roles made available by the educated pen of Miss Murdstone when not writing for herself. The rest of the piece is taken up with long monologues in which Inspector Braithwaite describes her feelings upon first looking into Chapman’s Homer , spending the winter in Italy or hearing the first cuckoo of spring. I keep feeling that I have heard it all before somewhere, but this is probably a subconscious tribute to Miss Murdstone’s ability to engage the ear of the listener.

Penny and I are given the job of helping behind the scenes and persuading Robin Brentford to attend the production. We decide that the best way of attaining the latter end is through the good offices of his doting daughter and it is with this in mind that we troop round to see Syllabub Brentford.

“Stupid old poof!” she says when we acquaint her with the reason for our visit. “It makes me want to puke just to think about him.”

“Syllabub! What a terrible thing to say about your father.”

“He’s not my real father. I shouldn’t think he’s anyone’s real father. He’s Mummy’s number four, that’s all. Why she chose him when she could have had the pick of any broken down alcoholic lecher in London, I’ll never know.”