-•✦--✦--✦•-
Friday, December 19th — Woodfield Primary School, Chester
Oliver drove to Woodfield as fast as he could. Working as a contractor had issues when one lived in Chester and made their living elsewhere. While the city he made his haunt was small, it happened to be smack-dab in the middle of three major cities of England. So while he had to commute everywhere, he never had to go without work for long.
Winter was not the best time for contractors, mainly in that rainfall was constant in all areas of England, and there was no place that it was more true than in Cheshire's rainy triangle. Normally he'd curse the weather, but as the wiper squeezed the rain away, he couldn't help but smile ruefully.
Today was supposed to be a special day — his and Erin's little miracle was shooting up like a mushroom after rain. He still remembered every single detail from the day that Erin grew sure that the pregnancy would keep. A day only second to the one they'd welcomed a new soul to this earth. Oliver had given up hope. He hadn't believed that they would have children, not anymore.
Then there he was. Ugly as sin, red as a beet. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
A sunny day would keep him away from spending as much time as he'd like with his son. So it was brilliant that he lived in England.
Woodfield Primary was right in between Upton and Newton and the only school in the catchment area that his wife, Erin, even considered for a moment. His wife was a wilful woman when they first met, and she'd only grown more sure of her making the world dance to her tune since. Oliver wished that Erin had a mobile phone as he did, but she was wilful in that too.
"It's too huge," she'd say.
He planned to surprise her with a mobile phone — just as soon as a smaller model came out. People spoke about Nokia phones that would fit in the palm of the hand — now that'd be a riot. Then again, he'd only believe the Finns when he had the thing in his hand.
The school came into view and he finally pulled in. The tiny parking space of the school was near full — the first time he'd seen it so. Vaguely familiar faces were making their way in pairs. Thankfully, he noticed a familiar car. Amelia and Noah Johnson were just exiting their red Ford Fiesta. An eyesore that he was at last happy to see. He waved them hello and they waved back. Amelia's smile felt bolted on and Oliver couldn't bear guessing what she was saying under her breath. When he turned off the engine and opened the doors, Amelia was silent as a mouse. She'd never liked him, that one.
"Hiya, Amelia. Noah. You alright?" Oliver asked with the brightest smile he could summon.
"Not bad, not bad at all. Had to leg it, like you, I reckon." Noah nodded to Oliver's Ford Escort — van version as is right in the world.
Amelia said nowt, so he had to amp up the cheeriness. "Right you are. How's Alfie, anyway?"
"Good, good." Amelia cut in. "He's gearing up to play a gangster. That is not right, you know." Amelia complained with oddly practised fashion.
"And they say, the apple don't fall far from a tree, eh?" Oliver gave a gentle elbow to the man.
Noah chuckled for half a moment before rubbing his ribs meaningfully. Amelia's eyes dared Oliver to continue. Right, that was him told. She'd never liked lad humour, even less so the more northern it got.
"Relax, will you, Amelia? You've seen the play as many times as I have. Not that we were good enough to be in one—" Noah coughed for a moment. "Nothing too bad about it, it's just kids playing at make-believe… That's it." Noah finished lamely.
They walked in awkward quiet for a few long moments.
"Who's Will playing?" Amelia asked.
"Ern. He's playing… Oliver," he replied, and at Amelia making a small noise, he continued on quickly. "Boy's been over the moon, thinks it's fate an' all… 'cause the character's name is Oliver and so mine is too. Heh."
"You've never seen Oliver, have you?" Amelia asked in disdain.
"Good for Will, eh?" Noah smiled and made a show of looking around. "Where's Erin?"
"She must be inside. Let's pick up the speed, yeah? Don't wanna miss our boys being boys."
"Right," Amelia said darkly.
Noah and Oliver both shared a knowing look.
—✦—
Erin was inside the school hall. A hundred and some more chairs were set up, and excited butts were in place making a right chatter about this and that happening to so and so. Chester was just big enough for people to not run into each other too often. It'd been some time since the last parents' consultation day, which meant the gossips and rumourmongers had just enough time to stock up on tea.
"There you are." Oliver side-hugged Erin.
"Hey — watch it, Mister." Erin chided him as usual.
"Sorry I'm late. M56's been murder to get through, they should really fix up the junction by the airport."
"You're lucky. You've only missed a dry speech from Chris."
"Actually," a woman in a traffic jam of her own a row over cut in, "we should be worried. Pupil numbers are down. Chris thinks the school will close by the time the current Year Ones transfer to a secondary."
"Heya, are you Jemima's mum?" Erin said with the kindest smile on her face. Oliver could've been fooled if not for the sudden cold sweat pooling at his back.
The woman nodded. "Kate. Pleased, and you are?" she asked down her nose.
Erin's features changed completely, and her accent turned fifty percent more Welsh. She wasn't a big fan of posh folks.
"I'm Erin, Wilfred's mum. He's playing Oliver. Who's Jemima playing?" Erin asked with a smile that could be mistaken for friendliness.
Kate's face shifted but quickly returned to the upturned smile. "The Strawberry Seller."
"Oh, apologies." Erin gave an even kinder smile. "Sorry, I'm not sure about the jobs of the characters. What's the name of this Strawberry Seller?"
Kate huffed indignantly. "That's the name of her character and she'll be singing an important section. Now, excuse me — I've to find my seat." Kate left quickly.
"My God, what's up with you, love?" Oliver asked, half impressed and half fearful.
"You want some servings too?" Erin threatened menacingly, which usually meant she put her accent on a bit thicker.
"No, ma'am." Oliver shook his head.
It was Erin's turn to huff. "I'm no ma'am. Makes me sound like one of those posh bints." She shot a look at the disappearing behind of Kate.
Oliver couldn't help but chuckle. "I worry that I've married a sailor from Liverpool. You'd reckon a librarian would make less noise."
Erin fell into his side but didn't forget to slap him gently. "You ever been to a library? I have to curse more than a sailor at the little scamps. I just want today to go perfect, can't let anyone ruin it with the doomsaying." She sighed, her energy finally drained.
"Let's grab some of those bikkies and a cuppa. Have you seen Wilf at all?"
"No. But there are a lot of kids looking at us awkwardly. Look, that girl's so nervous, the wee thing." Erin made an adoring noise.
Oliver tried to shift the topic before his wife could remember the past.
"Is that Tetley's? Erin, love, can you grab us some of those biscuits?"
—✦—
Oliver made sure to herd Erin, Amelia and Noah into a section where they didn't know many of the other parents. Managing his wife was almost as difficult as managing a construction crew. The crowd quieted down eventually when Mrs Moss came up to the stage.
"Welcome to Woodfield Primary's production of Oliver! by Lionel Bart, put on by our very own Year four, five and six."
[Applause]
"Before we begin, I'd like to thank each and every parent who's chipped in for the costumes or provided to our inventory of props. We simply wouldn't have been able to do this without all of you helping."
[Smattering applause]
"Please respect and provide patience to our children who will be doing their best. Give them your cheers of encouragement for they absolutely deserve it. For the last month and a half, they've learned to sing many new lines, stumbled until they could dance, and in some rare scenarios even mastered the dreadful Cockney accent."
[Crowd laughs]
"To my dear students hiding behind these curtains, I know each and every one of you is nervous. It is okay to be nervous. All of you have already done the hard work. Now is merely time to collect the bounty of your blood, sweat and tears. For we had many."
[Crowd laughs, cheers, scattered encouragements follow]
"So, without further ado, let the wheels of time turn back to London in the ye olde days of Queen Victoria. The simpler times… for many but those who we will hear from today…"
"She's really dramatic, that one," Oliver whispered to his wife and only got a sharp nudge in return.
Mrs Moss walked smoothly over to the piano and addressed the curtains. "Dim the lights—"
[Lights dim then turn off completely]
It took about five seconds of complete silence and darkness in which a few shocked yelps sounded before the piano made some discordant notes. All along, a backing track of violin, bass and percussion came on a bit too late before seemingly Mrs Moss took control once again.
[Lights brighten along with the piano beat]
Despite the brief chaos, Oliver spotted new props to have appeared on the stage — barrels made of cardboard painted poorly, along with a short flight of steps that he could've sworn had disappeared from his van. Children poured out from both ends of the stage.
Three dozen children made three separate rows and marched along sadly as they held onto empty bowls. Every now and then, their personalities would bubble out and they would dance, combine with another child crossing their path to create a little dance moment. Oliver was impressed by how in sync all the movements were even though it was as simple as it could be.
In fact, if he'd had any knowledge of the entertainment industry, he would have known that most of the moves were preempted by playing portions of the Patty-Cake game, handshakes and more, then switching onto spinning, twirling and more. Simplicity, and the need for two children to connect before they launched into a move, along with turning familiar games and gestures into a dance, made this feel more choreographed than it really was.
The children finished their haunting and upbeat song that was both sad and funny. Girls in work dresses landed ladles of slime that seemed to stand for gruel, and children thought of the tastiest food possible to make the gruel more palatable.
All the children stood still as a boy in a parish uniform held up his beadle staff, raising it ever so slowly as the children grew ever impatient. Once the staff cracked the stage floor, the children tore into the imaginary food as if they were hungry beasts, gluttons at the finest feasts.
Oliver chuckled lightly as they finished the hated gruel in seconds.
Then there was his boy — his bright boy in a torn grey tee, an old work shirt of his, and a jacket that also seemed a tad bit too big for him. Wilf awkwardly walked over to the parish while being pushed and prodded by the other children. Peer pressure as it were.
"What?" the parish asked in a poor Cockney accent.
"Please, sir, I want some more," his boy replied in a much better accent. Surely Ollie could be trusted for his unbiased views.
"What?!" the boy with the staff repeated in incredulity.
"Please, sir, I want some more?" Wilf asked, unsure about himself.
Oliver would remember this moment to use it later to tease the boy. The accent made him sound like one of those BBC period pieces.
Chaos ensued as the parish official commanded that Wilf, or rather Oliver, be caught, snatched, and held for his insolence. The song continued, and Oliver the father had forgotten that his son was performing as he enjoyed the singing voice of the parish official, backed by all the children around. Everyone sang his and his son's character's name in unison, a song criticising Oliver's greed — a sin unbecoming of an innocent child for such a religious lot.
Oliver stifled his chuckles as the parish immediately went to the street to sell Oliver — his son — for seven pounds. Another fun card to hold close to his sleeves. It was turning confusing to refer to his son as Oliver while his wife called him just to brag about their son, so he'd keep on calling him Wilf.
[Lights turn off.]
[Lights turn on.]
The scene had shifted, and there were no more benches and tables of the mess hall. Instead, a collection of the familiar barrels surrounded coffins in construction. Wilf was still being led by the parish, and a new boy was next to them.
"Liberal terms, Mr Sowerberry… Liberal terms? Three pounds!" the boy who played the parish said.
The new boy, who played the undertaker, haggled as if Wilf were only a product on a shelf. It was funny in a really messed-up way. Dickens had written the novel in a time when this was a mere reality and child labour was the norm. It seemed a good reminder of how much humanity had improved. But the way Mr Sowerberry haggled told the truth that nothing had really changed.
The next few minutes played out until it was revealed that Oliver was an orphan whose mother had died before telling them her name. His son did not have many lines so far and seemed shy and withdrawn while other kids were putting on amazing and memorable performances. Oliver started to worry, though he didn't realise it. Oliver was a man who loved football, competition of willpower and grit. He'd failed in his youth and knew how it felt, and Wilf seemed a cut below the rest of the kids in ability.
It was hard to imagine his son, who seemed anything but ordinary, to be so ordinary.
The boy and girl who played Mister and Mrs Sowerberry went on to a haunting yet beautiful rendition of a funeral song as other children came onto the stage to perform a scene of a funeral. His son's character was now a coffin follower, some sort of apprentice to the undertaker. This was when things started to change. His boy, who had so far been withdrawn and hadn't said almost any lines, suddenly started to be the focus of the stage. With the whole stage dimmed except for the lone light on Wilf, he sang a hauntingly beautiful song.
Oliver always knew that his boy could sing well. But knowing he was a good singer and knowing he could do this were different things. Wilf's voice came in soft mellow notes, the voice of an angel longing for a wish that could never come to be. Had Oliver not had the ears, he would've still felt the crowd move to the feeling his son had summoned. The applause to his song was louder than all the other songs received so far.
His boy had talent.
He was just playing a character that was invisible until this moment.
The rest of the play went on in a blur. Oliver had been told the children's names by whispers. Henry, who played Dodger, did the best job — the boy moved with a charm and fluidity that no one matched. Even Wilfred looked a bit wooden compared to the boy, but Oliver could fool himself into believing that it was merely the role differences.
Olivia, a little girl who played Nancy, had an amazing voice too. Her solo song received the loudest applause by the end of the play. The song was much better and it seemed that a lot of women could relate to the song. Humans had not changed much…
The only adult on the stage played Fagin, who, as Erin told Oliver, was actually the music teacher's husband. He also happened to be a true professional actor. So it wasn't surprising when the man took the stage and commanded attention and never let it go. Fagin oozed charm, slyness, and cowardice in equal measure. He could make you fear him as he manipulated children, then feel sorry when he was in turn threatened.
The only person that Oliver could truly complain about in the end was Bill Sikes, played by a Year 6 boy. Bless the lad, but it was hard to believe the young boy with fake mutton chops threatening to kill adult Fagin. Though the scene where he killed Nancy seemed convincing enough. In the end, this seemed a production with value that not many primary schools could achieve.
The play ended on a bittersweet tone and the children received a thunderous applause that they deserved every bit of. Mrs Moss had done a brilliant job turning these young children into actors and made the impossible by helping them remember their lines.
It was sometimes rough around the edges whenever too many children showed up on the stage at the same time. However, the main characters were incredibly good for just nine to eleven-year-olds. In Oliver's mind, he could mostly think of his son. On his right, his loving wife dabbed a cloth to her face to dry her tears. Her grip on the camcorder still steady.
Wilf had done brilliantly. Perhaps becoming an actor was too big of a reach. But he could sing, couldn't he? His talent in music was undeniable. Next Oasis or the Stone Roses? Maybe. Maybe not.
Oliver didn't fancy his son living the drug-fuelled life of rock-stars.
Everything would hinge on how Wilf's voice changed when it broke. Child singers didn't always make it as an adult, did they?
The light shined briefly over his son, a beaming smile that he'd rarely ever worn. His boy bowed to the audience with his fellow actors. It couldn't be denied that Wilf loved acting. He'd finally got out of his shell by pretending to be someone else.
He and his wife wouldn't admit it to the other parents. Maybe not even to themselves. But they were worried about Wilf for a long time. The boy made no friends wherever he went. Even as a toddler, he would often stare into nothingness like those poor senile folks. Had he not been smart as a whip, he would've worried about the boy's health.
It turned out that the boy only needed some encouragement and a hobby. A direction that he couldn't see the end of.
Nowadays, Wilf talked more about that boy Henry than his new book, which was already more than when he'd simply sit in silence. Oliver hugged his wife tightly and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.
"We've done well with our son, I reckon," Oliver said with pride.
He almost felt it coming before it actually did — his wife hit him on the shoulder.
"You mean, I've done well with my son?" Erin challenged, but smiled all the same, looking proud as a hen.
"Course I do, course I do." Oliver kissed his wife again.