The Serial: The Green Years, Day 24

Maisie tried to concentrate on the action on stage, but her mind wouldn’t let her. All she could think of was Ian Brown

Maisie urged Chrissie forward. “Here’s the bus,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “Hurry up or we’ll miss it.” “So, I’ll come over to your house at half past six,” Maisie gushed. “Be ready and dress to impress,” she said, as they parted company. Chrissie still wasn’t sure about Agatha Christie, or even what the play was about, but it would maybe take her mind off Tommy for a while. She hoped so, anyway. What had she to lose, and it was Maisie’s birthday, after all.

Maisie looked at the theatre tickets for the first time properly. Stalls, it said, seats G14 and G15. “Witness for the Prosecution.” Maisie grimaced. This play didn’t sound much fun. In fact, she was tempted to cancel the whole thing and go dancing instead, before she realised that now she’d spent the money on the tickets, there wasn’t any left for dancing.

Make the most of it, she told her reflection in the mirror. After all, this is another step in my self-improvement programme and, who knows, I might just enjoy it! Amazed She pushed all negative thoughts to the back of her mind and took out the dress she’d worn to Keiller’s dance. One of her mum’s pals had taken the dress in on her sewing machine, with the addition of several “darts” and the dress now fitted her natural curves.

There, she thought, as she flicked her blonde hair into little curls around her forehead and donned her cream duster coat, you’ll pass.

Chrissie was ready to go when she knocked at her door. She still wasn’t speaking much to her mum, but at least she’d stopped crying and was looking more like herself. They hopped on the bus and Maisie showed Chrissie the tickets. “Seventeen shillings and sixpence!” Chrissie blurted. “Each!” She turned amazed eyes on her friend.

“Witness for the Prosecution?” she queried. “What does that mean.” Maisie returned the tickets to her handbag. “I think it means, well, it’s probably about... Oh, for goodness sake, Chrissie, let’s just wait and see.”

The rest of the journey was taken in silence, until the girls were making their way along Ward Road to the theatre.

“Now remember,” Maisie said, her legs tensing as they got nearer the doorway and her grip on Chrissie’s arm tightening, “we’re sophisticated ladies and theatre-goers, so just smile and walk in with the rest of the crowd and don’t ask anyone who Agatha Christie is, please?”

The lights from the doorway gleamed out into the evening air as the girls made their approach. Suddenly, Chrissie pointed to a figure standing near the entrance.

“It’s Fiona Campbell,” she said, loudly. “What’s she doing here?” And before Maisie could stop her, she waved to Fiona and made her way towards her, disconnecting herself from Maisie’s gripping hand.

“Why, Chrissie,” cooed Fiona, “and Maisie,” she added as Maisie drew alongside her. “How lovely to see you both.” She turned to Maisie: “We missed you at badminton on Tuesday,” she said smoothly. “Is everything all right?” Terrified “Fine,” said Maisie tightly. “We just forgot.” She could have kicked herself for the lame excuse. Her new-found sophistication ebbed away as she took in Fiona’s dress and fur stole.

“It’s my birthday,” she hurried on, wishing to end the conversation, “so we’d better get to our seats.” She grasped Chrissie’s elbow again, as she fell deeper into embarrassment, terrified now that Fiona Campbell would ask her about Agatha Christie.

“I’ll maybe see you at the interval, then,” Fiona added. “Ian and myself will probably be in the bar for a drink as usual.” “Ian,” Maisie gasped. “Ian Brown, is he here?” Fiona smiled. “Well, you didn’t think I’d be here on my own, did you?”

Chrissie suddenly made the connection and quickly ushered the silent Maisie away from her nemesis and into the theatre. How they got to their seats, Maisie didn’t know. She only knew that Fiona Campbell had won. Ian Brown was her boyfriend. A nudge from Chrissie alerted her to the arrival of both of them.

Maisie watched as the pair walked past them down the aisle to the second row from the front, but within minutes of their arrival the theatre lights dimmed, blocking them from view and the play began.

Maisie tried to concentrate on the action on stage, but her mind wouldn’t let her. All she could think of was Ian Brown and how he’d proven to her, yet again, that men couldn’t be trusted and when the interval came, all she wanted was to go home. “It’s not much of a play,” she suggested to Chrissie. “If you don’t want to stay for the rest of it, it’s OK with me.”

Chrissie gave her friend a quizzical look. “This has nothing to do with Ian Brown and Fiona Campbell being here, has it?”

Maisie bent forward to pick up her handbag from the floor as the “lovers” left their seats and headed to the theatre bar. She pulled Chrissie down beside her. “Don’t let them see us,” she hissed.

“I think they already have,” Chrissie hissed back, catching Fiona pointing at them, from the corner of her eye. Maisie cringed.

“Don’t look at them,” she murmured, her agitation increasing by the minute. The couple moved on with the crowd. Smugness “They’re gone,” Chrissie informed her, bemused at the change that had overtaken Maisie. Not the sophisticated young lady who’d suggested the theatre but a shy child who’d been caught with her fingers in the biscuit tin. “You can come up now.”

Maisie straightened and cautiously looked around. “Let’s go home,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to be here when they come back to their seats.”

Chrissie looked around for another exit. “There,” she said. “Over there.” A green neon EXIT sign was lit above a curtain-covered door.

Keeping low, the two girls edged towards their escape route. Maisie felt like a criminal, sneaking away from the scene of a crime, but it was the only way out.

She couldn’t bear to see the look of smugness that would surely be all over Fiona Campbell’s face and as for Ian Brown, well, she never wanted to see him again, ever.

The arrival of Chrissie the next day, bearing gifts, lifted Maisie’s spirits slightly.

“Happy birthday,” Chrissie trilled, plonking herself down on the pink velvet chair and waving a carefullywrapped package in front of her. “For me?” asked Maisie. “Of course it’s for you, Miss Seventeen.” Maisie smiled. Birthdays weren’t celebrated much in the Green household, no birthday cake, nor cards nor ‘pressies’. It was just another day, in fact. More on Monday.