November, Woodfield Primary School, Chester, UK
My favorite classroom was the small auditorium where Mrs. Moss taught us Music. One might imagine a large hall with tiered seating—stands, as we call them in England. But no, it was just a slightly wider and longer classroom, with chairs strewn around the place. Mrs. Moss didn't like desks in there because we were too small to be relied upon to move them aside, and I suppose she didn't want to move them all by herself.
My classmates liked going to this auditorium because it meant we wouldn't have to write any musical facts or notes. Going to this hall meant we could play and sing. Mrs. Moss called it the "studio," even though the school had officially named it the Primary Hall. There was only one hall bigger, and I had a sneaking suspicion it would be used for our play—largely because it had the only stage in the school.
The Primary Hall had transformed during November, and even the chairs were no longer guaranteed. More often than not, we sat on the ground to practice. Mrs. Moss had conducted a fresh round of auditions, with all roles open to students from Year 4 and up. I hadn't chosen my role yet at the time, so at least Mrs. Moss wasn't lying when she said everything was still up for grabs.
Throughout the month, our Music class turned into something closer to Art or Drama. Not all the children could be in the play, so they were given other tasks—crafting props and costumes while the rest of us practiced the musical numbers. Mrs. Moss did her best to keep things balanced and everyone involved.
Most of the real activity happened after school. Normally, we'd leave at half past three, but now, those of us involved in the play stayed late. All the students from Year 4 to Year 6 who passed Mrs. Moss's audition were part of the production—36 kids in total. Mrs. Moss wanted as many participants as possible, so most had non-speaking roles and joined in for the group songs. The play itself was a musical, packed with songs.
In time, I would develop a true obsession with performing, but in November, I was mostly just curious about acting. I should clarify—I hadn't had any deep revelations about it. That's not entirely true. I had a broad idea of acting, but I had never really practiced it. I had discovered I was a singer in my past life, but clearly not an actor—just as I suspected I hadn't lived in England before either. I had many theories, but at the time, I believed I was probably from Wales. I seemed to know a lot about Wales.
•✦—✦•
"Director says, sit down! Make a funny face! You've messed up—come here, Maude," Mrs. Moss called out.
We were playing Simon Says, though Mrs. Moss liked to be called "Director," so she'd altered the game slightly. The goal was simple: a focus-based game to promote quick thinking. Whenever someone messed up, they had to reenact a scene that Mrs. Moss would seemingly pull out of thin air.
"Maude, you're a girl with a really bad boyfriend who hits you, but you can't run. Henry, come up here too—you're the bad boyfriend!"
Everyone laughed and giggled, giving Henry that classic peer encouragement.
"Here are your lines," she said, handing them both a copy of the same script. "This is an argument after Oliver gets caught, and Fagin—the master of thieves—is scared Oliver might reveal who they are. I'll be Fagin."
We laughed again—we still couldn't believe Fagin was a real name.
"Line two. Fagin. Director says—cut!" Mrs. Moss said before her demeanor changed entirely.
She was no longer our kind music teacher. Her eyes widened manically, shoulders hunched over.
"You shut your trap, Dodger! You've caused enough trouble," she snapped at an empty wall before turning sharply to Maude. "It's got to be done quiet. We don't want any fuss." She grinned cruelly and added, "The very thing! Nancy, my dear—you're so good with the boy!"
Maude wasn't even looking at her. In my opinion, Mrs. Moss had just delivered an amazing performance. But Maude was focused on reading her lines, her finger tracking the script. Once Mrs. Moss finished, Maude read her line quickly:
"It's no good trying it on with me," she said, as if reading for an English exercise.
Henry followed by striding toward her. Maude flinched—there was genuine fear in her at the sudden movement.
"And just WHAT do you mean by that remark?" Henry asked menacingly.
Whoa, he's good! I thought. Henry made it so believable.
Maude stumbled through her next line in a wooden tone, trying to get it out as fast as she could.
"What I say, Bill. I'm not going. Why can't you leave the boy alone? He won't do you no farm—I mean no harm." She glanced at Mrs. Moss, who simply nodded for her to continue. "Why can't you leave him where he is—where he'll get a chance at a decent life?"
Henry's face darkened, his expression fierce, voice rising:
"You'll get him back 'ere, my girl! Unless you want to feel my hands on your throat!"
He softly pushed Maude, who exaggerated her fall so dramatically it was almost comical.
Mrs. Moss then jumped back in with her next line, but Henry interrupted:
"She'll go, Fagin!" He turned away.
Maude continued the contentious scene, this time more confidently, likely having read ahead:
"No, she won't, Fagin!"
"Yes, she will, Fagin!" Henry said, miming a slap. We all gasped—until we realized he hadn't actually touched her.
"Bullseye!" Henry exclaimed before rejoining the line.
Then something unexpected happened. Maude, still on the floor, jerked away from Mrs. Moss's helping hand and spat on the ground near her. This time, the gasp was louder.
Maude looked proud of her acting—until she glanced at the script again. Her face dropped.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Moss. I read it wrong," she nearly cried.
Mrs. Moss burst out laughing, something we'd never seen before.
"No, it's fine. I think we'll recite the lines first from now on, and then act them out after everyone knows what to do."
"Well done, Maude. But you'll need to get the mop. No spitting in the classroom, young lady," she said in the Fagin voice -odd combination of accents that I couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Yes, Miss." Maude quickly cleaned the spot and rejoined the line.
"A round of applause for Maude and Henry. Amazing job!" Mrs. Moss said.
Of course, we clapped. Everyone got applause—even if they were as terrible as Maude.
"Henry, you seem like a natural. Quick thinking, and good job not actually hitting Maude." The kids laughed.
"Maude, we'll try again with you. You struggled reading the script, but you were much better at the end. Good job." Maude frowned but smiled by the end of the praise.
"Director says… make a face!"
We made stupid faces.
"Director says… make it even sillier!"
So we did, and laughed at each other.
"Director says… cry a tear!"
I saw kids squeezing their faces in strange ways, sillier than the last order of the director while trying to make themselves cry. I couldn't help but laugh.
"Ah, what a shame. No one cried a tear," Mrs. Moss smirked.
She was an evil genius. I promised myself I would learn from her. She was a natural at manipulating people to do her bidding.
•✦—✦•
"Here's the script. We'll sing the song."
Mrs. Moss pointed to roles. "Wilf, you're Oliver. Olivia is the strawberry seller. Maude, milkmaid. Joseph, knife-grinder." before explaining further about the scene.
According to her, Oliver had just arrived at a rich family's home and wandered into a genteel market district. She sat at the piano and began to play.
"Joseph!"
"Who will buy?" he sang.
"Very good. Olivia."
"Who will buy?" Olivia sang, slightly off-pitch.
"More like this," Mrs. Moss sang the line herself.
"Try again."
"Who will buy?"
"Brilliant."
"Step forward, Maude."
Maude sang, "Who will buy?"
"Mary!" Mary sang her line too.
Then came the chorus:
Who will buy
This wonderful morning?
Such a sky you never did see!
Who will tie it up with a ribbon
And put it in a box for me?
There'll never be a day so sunny
It could not happen twice
Where is the man with all the money?
It's cheap at half the price!
Then came my solo. Mrs. Moss softened the piano as I sang:
There must be someone…
"Olivia!"
"-Must be someone…"
Maude picked it up:
"-Must be someone…"
Then Henry:
"-Must be someone…"
Finally, we all sang together:
"WHO WILL BUY?"
I saw the last line and knew I'd have to sing it a cappella.
There'll never be a day so sunny
It could not happen twice
Where is the man with all the money?
It's cheap at half the price!
Who will buy this wonderful feeling?
I'm so high I swear I could fly
Me, oh my! I don't want to lose it
"Good job, Wilf. Good job, everyone. Let's give ourselves a round of applause!"
Our games continued. "Director Says" was fun, and Mrs. Moss somehow had every scene prepared in her head. She always knew exactly when to hand out the right script—even though she pulled them from a pile without looking. Everything stayed in the correct order, even though the play jumped around constantly. She also knew how to make us all "fail" at the right moment for a group reenactment—and always made it fun.
Women were scary. Among them, Mrs. Moss was easily the scariest. I wondered if I ever had a real choice in playing anyone but Oliver. Maybe I did—but it all changed when I saw Henry for the first time. He was eleven years old and brilliant at acting. It was obvious to everyone. I understood why—because I had read the script.
Dodger was a smartass character. While I thought of myself as clever, I couldn't play one convincingly. I wasn't as natural as Henry, who instinctively understood every emotion a character should have in every scene.
I didn't think I would learn from kids my own age, but I was challenged for the first time in my life.
Somehow, my budding ego wouldn't accept that.
I would surpass Henry Harrison. I swore it on my pride.