Toad races around
behind the stacked chairs. Heads swivel and crane, following the
clattered sonic path. The cardboard car slaps against seat backs and
clips the reverend’s ear as it's tugged around the corner and up
the central aisle. The following line of assorted policemen and
woodland creatures bump and stutter into each other like an awkward
conga, which stops and starts fitfully.
Toad leaps triumphantly
back up onto the stage and performs two satisfied hops. The hops are
noticeably odd; his upper body barely changes position, he almost
seems to tuck his legs up into a floating torso and then snap them
back again. It highlights the quality of the little boy's
performance, he's so other. He tilts his top hat forward and smirks,
an artful dodger for a second with the jaunty angle and the flowing
purple of his slightly ragged coat.
The policemen and
creatures have found their way back to their positions in the two
chorus lines that flank the raised platform stage. Ratty and Mole
push through from the back, readying themselves to clamber up and
join Toad. From the back of the hall, standing on a low bench, the
teacher gestures to them to begin but before they react, all eyes
snap to a crash and a shout from out in the audience.
Mole stares gormlessly
as Ratty shoves past and weaves through the rows of little chairs,
brushing past my lank frame, tucked up like a praying mantis.
Teachers gorp at each other, hoping for something to come down the
wire, a semaphore in glances, but no one can make out what has
happened.
Finally a few heads
pull back and I can see Ratty's delicate face paint slipping from her
cheeks in chalky streams. Her hand is on her grandfather's chest and
she looks at her mother in seeming slow motion as her hand comes up
to cover her mouth.
I watch Toad on the
stage. He stands on his spot, still twitching his shoulders in total
dedication to his character. He waits for his cue.
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