Page 99 of A Class Act

‘You’re looking very… very…’ I couldn’t quite work outwhatJobsworth Ken was actually looking when, two days later, the drama studio had become a hive of activity around the cameraman and sound recordist deciding the best positions for their equipment and apparatus. Ken was being officiously but smarmily protective of both the visitors and the drama studio, one minute brown-nosing in the manner of Uriah Heep with theFocus Northpresenter before turning to glare and bark at the kids who’d gone AWOL from registration in the hope of catching themselves on telly and who were now springing, in the manner of Masai warriors, at the windows into the studio from both outside in the yard and inside along the corridors.

A toupee! Of course! Jobsworth Ken had donned a gingery-coloured hairpiece to hide his balding pate and, wanting to laugh, I turned to Petra to share the revelation.

But Petra, beginning to lose her rag with the kids, was, with dire threats, attempting to send them back to their classes so appeared to be in no mood for a laugh. Mason, in his best navy three-piece suit, burgundy tie and polished brogues was ingratiating himself with theFocus Northteam, explaining how the school was hoping to become a designated performing arts school under the direction of St Mede’s professional West End musical theatre performer: i.e. me.

Oh, but he was a smooth talker, determined that people should fall in line with his ideas before, I was now beginning to realise, he became bored with that particular whim and moved on, flitting erratically to something else that caught his eye and his restless energy.

Mason Donoghue the butterfly.

I stood and watched, quite objectively, rather enjoying the performance Mason was putting on for the benefit of theFocus Northteam, until he turned and called me over, introducing me to Leanna Pottinger, the programme’s director and presenter, as ‘our resident expert in musical theatre, direct from a stint in the West End’.

I spent the morning under direction from Leanna, a tiny vivacious woman I liked enormously and who appeared to want to make me central to the five-minute clip that would go out that evening. The kids were brilliant, waiting their turn, showcasing their moves and explaining how their lives had been transformed with the arrival of a proper London performer at the school, and how they were turning away from hanging round the Co-op car park every evening, now that they had true meaning to their lives.

They’d obviously been well tutored by Mason about what to say and, after a particularly sycophantic outpouring from one Year 9 kid, I turned to glare in Mason’s direction where he stood with the group of Pink Ladies who were about to perform for the camera, throwing up my hands in despair and mouthing ‘Over the top!’ at him.

Despite having had only five weeks learning the score and the moves, I was hugely proud of their efforts, giving the thumbs-up as they trooped off from being filmed, high-fiving each other in their excitement.

‘We’ve been practising in Mia’s dad’s hen hut,’ Isla Boothroyd whispered as they came back towards me, their faces glowing, their bodies still excitedly and compulsively moving.

‘Didn’t the hens mind?’ I laughed.

‘No, they loved it!’ Isla said seriously. ‘Thought we were really good.’ She wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow. ‘Miss,’ she went on, ‘I’m going to do this when I leave school. I’m so-o-o-o-o glad you came to teach here.’

‘Me too,’ Fatima Khan added, turning to hug me. ‘You’re great, miss. Best teacher here. You won’t go off back to London, will you?’

‘Thank you, girls,’ I said, genuinely touched. ‘And good for you, Isla,’ I went on. ‘You stick to your dreams, and you’ll get there.’

‘Well, your Sorrel’s doing all right, isn’t she?’

We all turned to the centre of the drama studio where Sorrel was limbering up, dressed in the skintight black trousers and top Olivia Newton-John, playing Sandy, wore for the iconic dance with John Travolta. Adjusting the blonde curly wig – God knew where she’d found it – she sashayed over to the camera, pouted, said, ‘Tell me about it, stud,’ before taking off her jacket and flinging it towards the edge of the room. She made love to the camera, grinding out her cigarette prop with her red high heel and dancing so professionally, so fantastically, we all just stood and stared.

My little sister was going to go far.

I felt the tears start, knew I’d never been as good as Sorrel, knew that if the clip was shown onFocus Norththat evening, she’d be able to download it and show it at her interview and audition at the Susan Yates Theatre School the following month.

‘You were fabulous,’ I whispered as she came towards me, pulling off the wig as she did so.

‘Was I OK?’ she breathed, her eyes shining while the Pink Ladies crowded round her, congratulating and patting her like Premier League footballers after one of their team has scored a winning goal. ‘Oh, hell,’ she snapped as Blane, having previously derided any coming performance ofGreaseas ‘fucking bollocks’, had obviously snuck out of his class, donned the blonde curly wig and was now attempting a ludicrous Egyptian sand dance in front of the camera. ‘Get him off.’

Without hesitation, the pair of us descended, laughing, on the skinny lad and, taking an arm each, removed Whippety from the studio, praying the cameraman had stopped filming before he’d taken centre stage.

32

With the excitement ofFocus Northcoming into school and the subsequent airing of the film on the local BBC news programme that Wednesday evening at 6.30p.m. – and which was actually extended to almost ten minutes rather than the anticipated five – the kids at St Mede’s were fractious and un-cooperative. They’d had their five minutes of fame and, with the exception of Year 11, who were facing GCSE mock exams in the new year, with just two weeks to go to the Christmas break the younger kids had obviously had enough and were voting with their feet and downing tools early.

Back at home, we alternated watching theFocus Northclip over and over again – Sorrel highly critical of her performance, Mum just one proud mum that both her daughters were being shown in such a good light – with being force-fed Christmas concoctions that Jess thought she might make on the Friday while being filmed for the Yorkshire Christmas TopChef competition. All she’d been told was that round one involved the ten competitors coming up with and cooking a two-course Christmas meal of their choice using ingredients that were to beset out in front of them, before three of them would be chosen to go through to the final round.

‘Isn’t it cheating, practising like this?’ Sorrel asked, downing heavenly lemon and maple roasted carrots.

‘Not at all. They admit to it onMasterChef,’ I said, pulling a warning face at Sorrel as Jess, behind us at the stove, looked worried.

‘It’s not cheating, is it?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her pinny before handing over tiny, deliciously crisp Hasselback potatoes swimming in chive and cranberry butter, and delicate slices of a turkey wellington made with the flakiest pastry, delicious duxelles and tender meat.

‘Course not, darling,’ Mum added her own reassurance. ‘But buying this little lot must have set you back a fortune?’

‘Two months’ child benefit,’ Jess admitted somewhat guiltily. ‘Oh, and Dean arrived with the goose.’ She offered a plate of sliced goose crackling with orange and rosemary and, with forks at the ready, we all dived in.

‘Dean? Dean did?’

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