“Mrs. Hawley was written up in your column this week!” Cathy exclaimed. “I’d love to see her doll house things.”
Uncle Louie, as the conductor was affectionately known, came to the podium as the lights dimmed and bowed to the audience with a mischievous smile. Then he turned, rapped twice with his baton, raised both arms, and plunged the orchestra into the overture. The frenzied opening bars had the audience smiling as they settled in for three hours of bouncy music, a few romantic melodies, witty lyrics, and a madcap plot . . . all except Cathy. She was not sure what to expect or how to react.
The curtain rose on a rollicking band of pirates on the beach at Penzance, celebrating Frederick’s release. All wore red bandannas on their heads—and striped knee socks hand-knitted for the occasion. Ruth-poor-Ruth, their maid-of-all-work, was padded and costumed to look dumpy and dowdy.
“Is that Mrs. Hawley?” Cathy whispered.
Her solo explaining her mistake was delivered with full-throated verve and conviction, and applause brought down the house—not only because the house was filled with Hawleys and Scottens.
Another favorite was the stuffy major general with his over-trimmed uniform and wooden-soldier gait. His patter song, delivered with the speed of an automatic weapon, also delighted the audience. His beautiful daughters (twelve members of the women’s chorus) fluttered about the beach in long dresses, hats and gloves. One of them, a lyric soprano, fell in love with the ex-pirate, a romantic tenor. So far, so good. Qwilleran glanced at Cathy; she was sitting there solemnly, being educated.
Then the problems arose. The other pirates (twelve members of the men’s chorus) wanted to marry the major general’s daughters. At the same time, an error in reading the fine print of Frederick’s contract had released him too soon. And the major general told a heinous lie as the curtain fell on Act One.
These were all twists of plot that sent a happy audience to the lobby for a glass of punch during intermission.
Qwilleran said, “I’m going to the lobby. Would you like to stretch?” He avoided asking her what she thought of the opera, so far. Instead, he said, “Roger MacGillivray tells me you’re going to be a dance hall girl in the reenactment. How did you get involved?”
“My boyfriend is playing one of the river-drivers. They came down from French Canada to ride the logs downstream in spring. He teaches romance languages at the high school, so he’ll speak French. They wear red sashes and red knitted caps.”
“What do the dance hall girls do?”
“Hang around the saloon, and the customers say ‘chip, chip’ to us. That’s the 1860 equivalent of the wolf whistle.”
Before he could comment, the Abernethys appeared, and he introduced her as “Cathy of the Nutcracker staff,” adding, “Sorry, Cathy, I don’t know your last name.”
“Hooper, of the Trawnto Beach Hoopers.”
Brightly Nell said, “My name was Cooper, from the Purple Point Coopers. My cousin married a Hooper.”
“That was my aunt, and I was flower girl. That was the wedding where the cake exploded!” With difficulty, she suppressed giggles.
Nell was overwhelmed with mirth. “It was supposed to shoot off fireworks, but it backfired! The tablecloth caught fire and my cousin poured champagne punch on it!”
“Everyone was screaming!”
“The bride’s mother fainted!”
The two women were rocking with laughter, and the two men looked at each other and shook their heads.
Nell regained her composure enough to explain, “The Pickax Picayune headlined it ‘Hooper-Cooper Nuptials’ and didn’t say a word about the explosion. Now, whenever there’s a big wedding, we call it a real Hooper-Cooper!”
Qwilleran said, “Why don’t I find this event funny?”
The women said in unison, “Because you weren’t there!”
The lights blinked, summoning the audience back to their seats. As they moved toward the auditorium, Nell said, “Don’t forget the MCCC luncheon, Qwill.”
“Are you having fireworks?” he asked. He wanted to inquire about her connection with MCCC, but this was not the appropriate time.
As he and Cathy waited for the lights to dim and for Uncle Louie to return to the podium, she asked, “What happens in the second act?”
“Deceit, vengeance, intrigue, and a happy ending. The pirates battle the cops, who win on a technicality.” He handed her the lyrics in booklet form. “Take these home and read them, and you’ll appreciate W. S. Gilbert’s freewheeling way with rhyme. Who else would rhyme lot of news with hypotenuse?”
“Thank you. Shall I return it?”
“No. It’s part of your education.”
When the last triumphant chorus ended, the hall exploded in applause, cheers and whistles.
Cathy was glad that the pirates turned out to be decent after all.
“That’s Gilbert and Sullivan,” Qwilleran said.
“I loved their socks!”
She thought the policemen in their brass buttons and bobby hats were adorable. “But I felt so sorry for Ruth-poor-Ruth!”
“Don’t waste your tears. At the end she went off with the police chief and was winking at the audience.”
Hannah Hawley was the hit of the show—and not just because the auditorium was packed with Hawleys and Scottens.
Arriving at the cabin, Qwilleran could hear the Howling Chorus even as he put the key in the door. He realized it was not exactly delight at seeing him; it was a reminder that their elevenses were overdue. Automatically, he scanned the premises for catly mischief, just as Nick Bamba scanned a vacated guest room for missing lightbulbs and dripping hot water faucets. There were no shredded newspapers or disarranged pens and pencils, but two items had been pushed off the shelf over the sofa: Hannah’s video of Pirates and Bruce’s copy of Black Walnut. The latter reminded him there were some black walnut cookies in the refrigerator, and he brewed a cup of coffee.
chapter nine
On Saturday, Qwilleran was “up betimes,” as they used to say three centuries ago. What, he wondered, had happened to that word? It was still in the dictionary. If Polly were there, they would have a lively discussion about it. He missed her most on weekends. Later, he would drive over to her place to cheer up the cats, who missed her too.
Meanwhile he had coffee and a thawed breakfast roll on the porch. The cats were nearby, washing up after their own breakfast when, suddenly, they went on ear-alert. Someone was coming along the creek footpath.
It was the small boy from Cabin Two. He approached the screen saying, “Kitty! Kitty! You found your mittens!”
The cats remained stiffly aloof from this alien creature who was larger than a squirrel and smaller than a human.
Qwilleran started to say, “Does your mother—?”
“Danny! Danny!” screamed a shrill voice, and a frail-looking woman came hurrying along the path. “I told you not to bother people!”
“I wanna see the kitties!”
She snatched his wrist and dragged him home while he looked back in disappointment.
In preparation for Barter’s luncheon visit, he had some exploring to do and was pleased that he had brought his trail bike. The dense woods called the Black Forest Conservancy adjoined the Nutcracker Inn to the south and stretched for miles and miles.
He put on the biking gear that always scared the cats—tight-fitting green-and-purple suit, spherical yellow helmet, large black sun goggles—and wheeled his bike to Cabin One, where he rapped on Hannah’s back door.
She greeted him with a small cry of alarm and then laughed.