Page 64 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

‘What?’ She looked terrified again.

‘Jay has kind of — lost his voice. So he won’t be — in the wings — as such. But he’ll be in the audience! That’s nice, isn’t it?’

‘No. No. Oh my word. So I’m on — like — next?’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘Jay was first,’ moaned Polly, closing her eyes. ‘As reigning champion, he goes on first. Oh God. Oh God.’ She started to hyperventilate. A woman with a clipboard began heading our way, and I could see Sally’s head bobbing around and looking concerned.

‘Polly! Slight change of plan!’ called the lady.

My jaw dropped. ‘Oh. Hell.’

‘Yes.’ Polly nodded, staring at the woman approaching her. ‘Oh God. Oh God . . .’

Now, I know I should have been managing her expectations, but I wimped out. I patted her on the arm. ‘I’ll — I’ll just see if he really is too voiceless to go on. Leave it with me before you agree to anything, Polly. Channel your inner Stevie Nicks. Stand your ground.’

I scurried out from behind the stage and headed back to our seats. ‘Jay — are you really not going on stage?’ I hissed, panicking on Polly’s behalf. ‘Polly is a mess. Apparently they put her on after you in the running order, and she reckons she can’t go on first.’

A horrified expression passed over his face, and he made to stand up, then subsided again, shaking his head.

‘Oh hell.’ I looked around. ‘I’ll go and try and get someone to change the running order—’

‘What’s up?’ asked Rosie, tuning in to the conversation. I briefly filled her in on the details and she pulled a face. Then her habitual optimistic personality came through again, with one of her characteristic inane, un-thought-through comments. ‘Oh that’s okay, though. If a gap’s opened up, you could do your Irish Dancing instead.’

‘Dear Lord, I hope they don’t make me do that!’ I squawked. ‘In fact, you do something Rosie! Go on — take your turn!’

‘I don’t have any performing talents,’ she said, fake-sadly, and shook her head. ‘What a shame.’

I knew she didn’t mean that in the slightest. I looked around helplessly, and Owen caught my eye. ‘I’ve got this,’ he said. Then he smiled, stood up and sauntered over to the stage. I saw him walk up to someone else with a clipboard (Mrs Culpepper? I wasn’t sure — she looked pretty frazzled and her hair was sticking up all over the place). I made to go after him but Jay grabbed my hand and pulled me back into my seat.

‘It’ll be fine. Trust me,’ he whispered. His voice definitely sounded more normal by now — but before I could challenge him, a loud fanfare blared out from the speakers making me jump and the hounds howl. They were standing with Mrs Pomeroy on the stage, and she looked around at the audience — today her hat was made of brightly coloured crochet flowers all joined together — then clapped her hands.

Someone handed her a megaphone and she raised it to her lips. ‘Welcome to Padcock’s Got Talent!’ she bellowed. ‘We’re delighted to welcome you here. And the first thing we must do is thank the committee for organizing our splendid event, as always.’ Everyone clapped politely, and she continued with her speech, thanking everyone for coming to the Fayre, thanking the stallholders, etc. etc. Eventually her speech appeared to be winding down as she advised us all to ‘Sit tight, and enjoy the show.’

‘We’re sorry to say that our reigning champion, Jay Rivers, is unable to perform today.’ She continued. ‘But we have to thank Owen Wright for stepping into the breech. And here he is, performing our first act — the opening scene from Henry V.’

With that, Mrs Pomeroy finally exited the stage and headed to what appeared to be the judges’ table. She squished in next to Veronica, Sally and Mrs Culpepper, the hounds creeping under the table by her feet, as the show began.

There were a few uncertain claps from the audience, but when Owen strode onto the stage, spectacle-less and jacketless, struck a pose and glared moodily out into the audience, the place erupted into applause.

‘Please. No unsexing,’ muttered Jay, and shrunk into his scarf. Right, that was definitely not a croak. I needed to speak to him — but before I could, Owen shifted position and cleared his throat.

He looked stormily out into the crowd, and began his speech:

‘O for a muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! . . .’

Wow. He was good. Really good! I didn’t particularly understand the context, but I still recognized a good bit of acting when I heard it. And Owen’s delivery was far, far better than my Irish Dancing would have been.

At the end of the speech, Owen fixed his smouldering gaze on the wings.

‘. . . Admit me Chorus to this history;