In the Fifth at Malory Towers (Malory Towers, Book 5)
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Games, lessons, quarrels and tricks all form part of a lively term, but the biggest event of all is the Fifth Form pantomime, written, acted and produced entirely by the girls. It generates a lot of fun, but also a surprising amount of trouble.
fifth-form common-room with a good grace. Perhaps there would be time afterwards to go to the stables. ‘Come on,’ said Sally to Darrell. ‘Let’s go and round up all the others. I’m longing for this committee.’ 8 MEETING AT HALF-PAST FIVE THE whole of the fifth form was soon collected in the North Tower common-room. The girls sat on chairs, lounged on the couches, or lay on the floor-rugs. They talked and shouted and laughed. Moira came in and went straight to the table. A big chair had been put
Catherine put on a saintly face, pressed her lips together as if stopping herself from retorting, and went on darning. There was a knock at the door. Irene groaned. ‘Go away! Don’t come in!’ The door opened and Connie’s face peered round. ‘Is Ruth here? Ruth, can you come for a minute? Bridget is out here. We’ve got rather a good idea.’ ‘I don’t like Bridget,’ said Ruth, in a low voice. ‘And anyway I’m busy. So’s everyone else here.’ ‘But, Ruth � I’ve hardly seen you this week,’ protested
eye-to-eye about. Soon they were deep in discussion, weighing up the merits of one player against another. ‘This match against Wellsbrough,’ said Darrell. ‘Next week’s match, I mean, with the fourth team playing Wellsbrough’s fourth team. I’ve put young Susan in � and I’d like to put my young sister, Felicity in. What do you think, Moira?’ ‘Good gracious, yes’ said Moira. ‘She’s absolutely first-class. Super! Runs like the wind and never misses a catch. She must have been practising like
furiously. ‘I don’t,’ said Bill, mildly. ‘I never said I did. But you can do all that without being a dictator. You sit up there like a warlord and chivy us all along unmercifully. I quite expect to be sent to prison sometimes.’ ‘Let’s get on,’ said Darrell, afraid that Moira was going to blow up. Arguing always wasted so much time. ‘We’ll take that bit again. Mavis, begin your song.’ Mavis sang, and a silence fell. What a lovely voice she had, low and pure and sweet. That would make the
audience like a miracle, and there was not a single sound to be heard while she sang. Mothers found their eyes full of tears. What a wonderful voice! What a good thing it had come back to Mavis. Why, one day she would be a great opera-singer, perhaps the greatest that ever lived. Mavis sang on and on like a bird, her voice pure and true, and Irene exulted in the tunes she had written so well for her. There was such a storm of clapping that again the pantomime was held up. ‘Encore!’ shouted