Hubble Bubble (34 page)
Mitzi was aware of Doll watching with suspicion, and Lu with encouragement. Tarnia finished the Powers of Persuasion Pudding and dabbed delicately at her lips.
She gave a stiff beam. ‘Delicious. Absolutely melts in the mouth. You have remembered to bring your recipes, haven’t you?’
Mitzi nodded and fished them from her handbag. Shay and Brett passed them along the row.
‘Lovely.’ Tarnia stretched her trout-pout lips into a smile. ‘And of course I’ll sing
Hair’s
praises to the charity commissioners. No problem. You’ve worked miracles in
the village, Mitzi. Marquis and I are delighted to let you have the hall for as long as you want, aren’t we darling?’
Snotty Mark grunted.
Lulu winked at Mitzi.
Tarnia wiped crumbs from her pink leather lap. ‘You still look ghastly, though, if you don’t mind me saying so. Such a shame you haven’t taken yourself in hand, but there, we can’t all have natural glamour, can we?’
Doll and Lulu sniggered.
Mitzi, surprisingly pleased that the Puddings could still work their magic, simply smiled back. She didn’t care what Tarnia or anyone else thought of her appearance. What did it matter now anyway?
And if the Puddings could still persuade, she did wonder in a half-hearted manner how many of the audience had eaten her new recipe, Mistletoe Kisses, or the Dreaming Creams which she’d attempted again in the hope she’d be perfect by the time of the wedding, and if they’d have their usual effects.
But she didn’t wonder for long.
With a drum roll from the stage, the lights went out, the footlights went on, the curtains rattled open, and everyone fell silent.
‘What the hell is that?’ Doll hissed along the row. ‘Why is there a bloody great galleon in the middle of a park?’
Mitzi, who hadn’t seen the final version of Raymond and Timothy’s backdrop, shook her head in mystification.
‘It’s the
Cutty Sark,’
Shay whispered. ‘It says so on it. And as the programme says the whole thing is set in Greenwich Village—’
Mitzi tried hard to stifle her giggles. Only in Hazy Hassocks could they have misunderstood
which
Greenwich. If she looked carefully she’d probably see the Observatory and the Meridian Line too – yes! There it was! Snaking away between the very English, painted flower beds. Oh, if only Joel could have been here to share this.
Several other people were chuckling loudly. Fortunately
the mirth hadn’t reached the stage, where septuagenarian Sid as Claude, wearing an eiderdown, was sitting cross-legged, alone in the spotlight, his head bowed, his trailing acrylic wig slipping slightly askew. It was an awesome moment and stunned the audience into silence.
The silence, however, was merely momentary. As The Tribe made their first appearance, the village hall erupted into mass hysteria.
Even Mitzi, who was sure she’d never laugh again, managed a respectable chuckle.
The Baby Boomers, faces painted circa Woodstock 1969, wearing a selection of caftans, with nylon Afro wigs and beads, flowers and bells, shuffled on to the stage.
Lav and Lob had their wigs over their cycle helmets and waved cheerily to the front row.
Doll and Lulu were crying with laughter as The Tribe clumsily set up the altar, tried to start a fire with matches which wouldn’t strike and had to resort to Sid’s cigarette lighter, then discovered that no one had any scissors to snip off the symbolic lock of his hair, so tossed his entire wig into the flames.
There was a whoosh and a roar and a blinding flash.
A now bald Sid, who grizzled all the time about his arthritis and moved at the speed of a funeral cortège, leapt to his feet with a feral scream.
The Tribe, looking a little worried about the inferno, huddled towards the wings and spluttered into a halfhearted rendition of ‘Aquarius’ as Trilby Man clambered inelegantly on stage and threw a cup of coffee on the flames.
The fire went out, The Tribe shuffled forward, and ‘Aquarius’ increased in volume.
As someone had loaned a rather dubious surround-sound system, Galt MacDermot’s music was at eardrum-splitting level. The audience, once assured they weren’t going to be burnt to a crisp, joined in with gusto.
It was all uphill after that. The first act steamed on, with
no one in the audience having a clue what was happening on stage, the actors not seeming to care, and both having a whale of a time. The Baby Boomers’ rendition of the title song was like watching massed ranks of aunts and uncles, very drunk at a wedding, having a go at karaoke for the very first time.
‘Dance, damn you, dance!!!!’ Trilby Man screamed from the wings.
The Baby Boomers tried their best. Given their age, they managed heroically. The movements were more robotic than sensuous; most of them stumbled on their caftans and several lost their wigs. Singing and dancing at the same time seemed not to have been a must-do at rehearsals. Ronnie fell over and Beryl, without her glasses, wandered off the edge of the stage and disappeared under the trestle table supporting the footlights.
‘I think I’m going into labour,’ Doll sniffed happily. ‘I haven’t laughed so much for years.’
Murdered song followed murdered song, flowers were strewn, Frank fell off his pole and had to be helped away, and Hazy Hassocks loved every minute of it.
Bernard, Doreen and Christopher tiptoed rather sinisterly towards the front of the stage. The sound system had ‘Hare Krishna’ on multi-replay. Hazy Hassocks was riveted.
‘It’s time for the Be-In!’ Christopher shrilled. ‘Tourists – come to the orgy!’
Hazy Hassocks was a bit slow on the uptake.
‘They’re taking their clothes off!’ Tarnia screamed happily along the row.
They were. It was the most frightening thing Mitzi had ever seen. Thirty-plus pensioners stripping off to grey underwear, and in some cases even greyer flesh. Lav and Lob were resplendent in Vedonis. Thank the Lord, Mitzi thought, for the efficacy of the hot-air blowers.
‘Come on.’ Shay was on his feet, holding out his hand to Lu. ‘We’re the tourists. We’re going to an orgy.’
He was out of his Levis and sweatshirt in seconds and
leaping onto the stage. Lu, in her vest and Sloggi pants, only seconds behind him.
‘Blimey!’ Doll raised her eyebrows at Mitzi. ‘Shay’s got a fantastic body.’ She caught Brett’s frown. ‘Oh, not as good as yours, of course – but …’
Once Shay and Lu were on stage, singing and dancing and loving in, Hazy Hassocks cottoned on quickly and needed no second invitation. Layers were shed along with inhibitions and chairs toppled backwards as the audience, in various stages of undress, charged forward.
Tarnia, giggling, had wriggled out of the sparkly pink leather and was skipping up the steps in a rather lovely set of Janet Reger. Snotty Mark buried his head in his hands.
‘I’m not going up there,’ Doll said. ‘Not in my condition. And what exactly did you put in the refreshments? That love-in up there looks a bit too authentic to me.’
Mitzi nodded. It did. Lots of very unsuitable people were groping and slobbering over lots of other very unsuitable people. It was in danger of becoming a real orgy. The Mistletoe Kisses still needed a slight adjustment then.
‘Come on, Mitzi!’ Flo and Clyde Spraggs, wearing scaringly little, grabbed her hands. ‘Up yer comes, duck!’
‘No! I mean, I’m not going.’
‘Course you are. It’s all a bit of fun! Look at Hed and Biff! And Mrs Elkins – and young Tammy and Viv – and Gwyneth and Big Ida – oh, and look at Boris and Otto!’
Mitzi looked. ‘Hare Krishna’ roared, on stage the audience and players alike stalked and stroked and sang and snogged. Tarnia was chewing the face off a very young boy from the Bath Road Estate.
Mitzi hesitated. Did she have matching underwear? Did she care?
Tugging off her jeans and yanking her jumper over her head, with Doll and Brett’s cheers in her ears, she rushed onto the overcrowded stage with Flo and Clyde. Her black bra and knickers weren’t her best, but they were reasonably respectable and at least she’d shaved her legs.
It was, she decided, a whole lot of fun. And hadn’t she read somewhere that Princess Anne had joined in on the Be-In during a
Hair
performance in the 1960s? Raising her arms above her head she swayed and waved and clapped and sang ‘Hare Krishna’ at the top of her voice. It was just like being at the Shepton Mallet Blues Festival in her youth. So what if her heart was broken? So what?
‘That’s the way to do it, duck!’ Trilby Man shrieked in her ear. ‘Give it all you’ve got!’
Mitzi glanced sideways at him. He was wearing nothing but his hat.
She shimmied away from him and ended up linking arms with Ronnie and Philip and going into a sort of Tiller Girl routine. The noise roared on; the auditorium was half empty; the stage was packed. Everyone was grabbing everyone else. The Mistletoe Kisses had worked their magic – again.
Mitzi grinned down at Doll and Brett who were clapping and singing in the front row. She couldn’t see anyone else in the audience. Just a few faces, the more reticent villagers, dotted around in the gloom, all waving their arms in the air or clapping or singing.
All except someone standing alone at the back of the hall.
Someone who was watching her with an inscrutable expression on his craggy, beautiful face.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Mitzi groaned.
It was the 23rd of December. A dark, grey, bitterly cold day. Mitzi’s kitchen was a scene of devastation. Richard and Judy, covered in flour and icing sugar, were scuttling around the floor, tails erect, happily hoovering up everything that dropped in their path.
‘Whose stupid idea was it to get married on Christmas Eve?’ Mitzi grumbled.
Under the table, Richard and Judy chewed happily and said nothing. Hawkwind, throbbing from the CD player, didn’t answer either.
In the days since
Hair,
Mitzi had managed to finish all her Christmas shopping, made sure absolutely everything was ready for the wedding, and tried to forget about Joel.
The first two had been easy, but not the third.
By the time the
Hair
Police had scrambled on stage to ‘arrest’ the orgy-goers, signalling that the official intermission had kicked in, and everyone had returned to their seats, Joel had gone.
Jesus! Mitzi was overcome by embarrassment again, simply remembering. Here she was, merely a few years off pension age, and he’d seen her, with baggy eyes and baggy skin, and without make-up and with her hair all anyhow, cavorting semi-naked in front of the entire populations of three villages.
Pride and self-preservation had prevented her from
asking Doll if he’d since mentioned her performance.
She sighed heavily and tried to concentrate on Granny’s recipe book propped up on the table. The Mistletoe Kisses, Green Gowns and the rest were all done. All that was left was to bake the last batch of Dreaming Creams, defrost the remainder of the party food, take the whole lot to The Faery Glen, get to Pauline’s for her mother-of-the-bride wash and blow-dry, and remember to smile at all times.
For a fleeting second, on stage in the village hall, she’d forgotten her broken heart and her anger at her own stupidity. Seeing Joel, dark and gorgeous, in the shadows, had deflated her euphoria as suddenly as a pricked balloon. And today, when the surgery closed its doors for the festive period, Joel would be driving home to Manchester.
‘Silly cow!’ Mitzi berated herself. ‘You love him you had him and you let him go – all for some stupid romantic girlie whim.’
Hawkwind, showing no sympathy whatsoever, revved up into ‘Silver Machine’.
Hair had been a stonking success. Act Two had gone down even better than Act One. The cast took curtain call after curtain call and the after-show party rocked on for hours. The aphrodisiac effect of the Mistletoe Kisses, so efficacious during the Love-In, had taken ages to wear off, and everyone was still very touchy-feely.
Mitzi had been moved to tears when the Baby Boomers had dragged her on to the stage and presented her with a huge bouquet at the end of the afternoon and told everyone none of it would have happened without her. That she had, with single-minded determination, shaken them out of their over-fifties lethargy. Mitzi Blessing, they proclaimed to the whole audience, had changed the lives of Hazy Hassocks’s grey army for ever.
She too got a standing ovation, and hopefully only she and Lu and Doll knew all the tears weren’t simply because she was awash with Baby Boomer emotion.
Tarnia, still trying to kiss everything in sight, had told
Mitzi it was the best day out she’d ever had and that the BBC could have the use of the village hall for ever and ever, and had been led away giggling by a stony-faced Snotty Mark.
At least something good had come out of it.
‘Right.’ Mitzi squinted at Granny Westward’s scrawly writing. ‘So we’ll just leave this batch of Dreaming Creams mixture to cool, and I’ll knock up a little pie for tonight.’
How long ago it seemed since cooking had terrified her. How many years had she wasted, defrosting ready meals, when she really had a knack for producing surprisingly edible recipes? And how long ago did it seem since she’d found Granny’s cookery book and made that first Wishes Come True Pie?
Well, at least Doll and Lu had got what they’d wished for.
Tonight, she and Lu and Doll were going to have a girls’ night in. Well, after Doll and Lu had had a swift drink with their friends in The Faery Glen as a sort of muted hen night. She’d declined the invitation to join them, saying she needed far more time than they did to pamper and primp and preen herself for the nuptials.
Surprisingly, they’d both asked her to make the Wishes Come True Pie for the last supper. Doll was staying overnight, at least giving some lip service to tradition, so that she could leave for the church from number 33 with Lance in the morning.
Tomorrow was all beautifully organised, and should be one of the happiest days of Mitzi’s life, and of course it would be. Almost.
The dental surgery glittered with decorations, and Joel and Mr Johnson both wore Santa hats which probably scared the life out of the patients. Tammy and Viv had hopeful sprigs of mistletoe attached to their chests, and Doll wore flashing snowmen earrings.
