Rosamund Dallow

Rosamund Dallow was born in Napier, New Zealand. Her career has spanned many fields, including ballet (as dancer, teacher, lecturer, broadcaster and writer), flamenco and acting (in theatre, radio and TV). She has taught English in the newly independent East Timor, worked as a security guard and sung in the choir at the Sydney Olympics.

She has travelled widely, loves history and speaking other languages, snorkelling, and researching her family tree – which can be traced to the Norman conquest of England. Rosamund wrote Broken Rhythms as a tribute to the land, and the times, which have shaped her life. She is a passionate advocate for the environment, and is currently working on a sequel to Broken Rhythms.

Broken Rhythms

by

Rosamund Dallow

Broken Rhythms

Published by Books Unleashed at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Rosamund Dallow

Rosamund Dallow

PO Box 810 Petersham

NSW 2049 Australia

Email: Rosamund.Dallow@gmail.com

Website: www.rosamund-dallow.com.au

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

The fact that this book is published online does not mean that any part of it can be reproduced without first obtaining written permission: copyright laws do still apply. Inquiries should be directed to the author.

The author asserts his/her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

First published by Books Unleashed in 2014

PO Box 386 Broadway

Sydney NSW 2007 Australia

Phone (02 9283 0123

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

The cover designed by the author and realised by Breakout Communications

Edited by Irina Dunn

To Moira

Acknowledgements

Many people have given encouragement, help, and suggestions during the making of this book. They have proofread, boosted morale, given valuable input, and stayed the distance with me.

My warmest thanks to you all.

Most of all, I deeply appreciate the constant support of my husband Gavin, without whom I’d have given up the whole idea. His four-foot long paper timeline kept my complex story moving, and its writer relatively sane.

Rosamund Dallow

The cover photo of Hastings Street Napier (above), was taken a few minutes after the earthquake on 3 February 1931. From the collection of Hawkes Bay Museums Trust, Ruawharo Tā-ū-rangi, [70670]. With special thanks to Napier Municipal Council.

Legend

In ancient times, the great fisherman, Maui, threw his giant hook into the ocean.

He dragged up the land mass which became New Zealand,

Ao Te Aroa, Land of the Long White Cloud.

Giant white eels, the Taniwha, lived in the depths – they carved out a harbour,

Te Whanganui A Tara, and the waters rushed in.

So the legend goes.

As Maui hauled in the New Land, it split into two pieces.

Te Ika a Maui, Maui’s Hook, to the north,

Te Wai Pounamu, the Waters of Jade, to the south.

The ocean vowed revenge for the theft. It sent punishment.

Ravaging waters, harsh winds, and the earth’s tremors, signs of the gods’ displeasure.

When the white-skinned race came to live there, a city grew on the shore Where Maui had cast his hook.

The new country was the last great landmass to be colonised.

Its Earth held forces which shadowed both races. Many times it took lives and property as compensation.

The Maori told of its power to punish the breaking of tapu, a thing forbidden, under pain of terrible disaster.

There was retribution from those spirits of air, fire, water, and earth.

The people endured.

Prologue

The lone figure is a study in grey.

A well-worn suit with the collar pulled tightly around her neck, shabby court shoes, and iron grey hair with an old-fashioned roll at the back.

She’s whispering prayers as the rosary beads slip through her fingers.

The few who pass nearby, their coats firmly buttoned against the cold air, know not to interrupt.

She’s there at the same time every day, sitting in her usual place on the stone ledge of the colonnade on the Marine Parade.

Its graceful curve encloses a semi-circle of leaden sky which leans in closely, almost within reach.

There’s a scent presaging rain which will fall heavily, like the tears coursing down the aged face beneath.

She scans the horizon, as though a ship will suddenly appear, and deliver a long-awaited cargo.

In the distance, the streets leading to the seafront are full of the happy hum of commerce.

A seagull lands near her. She puts down her rosary, and sprinkles some crumbs for the hopeful bird.

The wind is freshening, and the spray from the fountain glistens on the bronze statue of a young maiden, also facing the ocean.

A middle-aged woman and a young man meet, a few paces away.

A memory stirs in the old lady’s mind when she looks at the pair, then fades.

‘I’d better go,’ she mutters as her heart begins its fluttering. ‘I forgot my pills and Dr John will scold me again.’

Contents

Acknowledgments

Legend

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Little Miss Seymour

Chapter 2 - Leaving home

Chapter 3 - Through new eyes

Chapter 4 - Gertie’s protégé

Chapter 5 - Welcome home

Chapter 6 - Earth in upheaval

Chapter 7 - Marriage à la mode

Chapter 8 - Beth and Laura

Chapter 9 - Louis’ story

Chapter 10 - Friends

Chapter 11 - Particles collide

Chapter 12 - A new life

Chapter 13 - A gracious invitations

Chapter 14 - The Battle of Jailhouse Rock

Chapter 15 - Russian roulette

Chapter 16 - Farewell

Chapter 17 - Beryl’s story

Chapter 18 - Traded goods

Chapter 19 - Laura and Louis

Chapter 20 - Reunion

Chapter 21 - Rotorua

Chapter 22 - Wiremu

Chapter 23 - The Search

Chapter 24 - Tremors

Chapter 25 - A widening rift

Chapter 26 - In the gutter

Chapter 27 - Smoke and rumblings

Chapter 28 - Frost on the grass

Chapter 29 - Discovery

Epilogue

Further reading

Little Miss Seymour

Elizabeth Joan Seymour, known as Beth, was born in 1903, the second daughter of Arthur and Joan Seymour. She was rarely still or silent, a natural extrovert from her first moments on earth. She closely resembled her father, with a strong chin and a straight, high-bridged nose. Arthur Seymour was proud of his Norman ancestry, and spoke often of his former privileged life in England.

A thousand years of history, he’d say complacently, tapping the noble feature. We came over to England with the Conqueror, you know.

One evening, long after dark, the child, a light sleeper, was lured from her upstairs bedroom which she shared with her older sister Maude in the family home in Napier, New Zealand. The sounds of piano and song floated up from the drawing room. The Seymours were giving one of their little after dinner concerts, with the guests as performers. Dr Wilfred Harding, the family physician and good friend, had a pleasing baritone. His forte was popular ballads, and his warm vibrato brought the pink to ladies’ cheeks with his Kashmiri Lovesong. Miss Leyland played the flute delightfully, and Arthur himself loved to do the patter songs for Pooh-Bah from the Mikado. Beth was fascinated, and stored the songs and poems she overheard in her precocious memory as guests enjoyed each other’s talents, and the after dinner coffee, served in the finest English bone china.

Curled up at the top of the stairs in her night gown, listening to the chatter and the tinkling of sugar spoons, the child wished she was older than nearly seven – she wanted to be included in the company. It sounded like so much fun, and she could sing and recite, too. Sometimes, her sister Maude, missing the other occupant of their bed, would find her there and try to haul her back. Silent cat fights took place, which the slighter Beth always lost. They were caught at it one evening, when a call came through the telephone exchange for the doctor, and he had to leave early. Seeing his guest to the door, the host glanced up sternly at the red-faced sisters, caught in a hair-tugging contest. The departing guest was amused.

The following morning, the girls were called for an interview in the parlour. Maude was reprimanded for not taking better care of her young sister, and Beth begged pardon with all her charm, and launched into a plea to be allowed to join in the family entertainment.

I can sing too, she declared, then convinced her parents with a rendition of Three little maids from school. They were astonished. The child’s memory was impressive, and she had naturally good pitch. Her father, a lover of Gilbert and Sullivan, said, Well, well, wife – it seems we have a very talented little daughter, this should be encouraged.

The elder sister, indignant that her parents had not chastised, but rewarded, the peeping Tom, was included in the decision they made that morning to allow both girls to stay up later, and to let Beth join in at future social gatherings.

A voracious reader from four years old, Beth had memorised the popular Rudyard Kipling verses, much in demand for their flavour of India and the Raj. Listeners murmured the words along with her, nodding with approval at the sentiments – rule by the superior race, moral force from the Bible, and control through grapeshot. India, the jewel in the British crown, was the flavour of the era.

Standing straight and fearless, dressed in blue velvet with a hip sash, the prodigy, with a flourish of her arm, thrilled her audience with the tale of the servant and his blind loyalty. Beth delivered the final stanza, with its climax You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din, with a gaze that travelled across the seas to the dust of the Punjabi fort.

Her recitation was followed by an Oooh! from the ladies, who were thrilled by the sentiments, and kid-gloved applause. Afterwards, the artist was allowed to mingle with the company and modestly accept compliments.

How edifying to hear such diction, said one matron, patting Beth on the head. These days, children speak so badly. Her hostess beamed with pride. I know of a few adults, too, said Joan Seymour, who would benefit from the good nuns’ lessons in how to speak the King’s English.

The social gatherings, and life in general, were a pleasant reminder to all that they lived in the best of times. The first decade of the new century passed peacefully in their orderly corner of the world.

From Beth’s first day at the Catholic primary school, an unfortunate blight – left-handedness – became evident. Superstition saw it as the sign of the devil, and the teachers beat the five year old on the knuckles with a ruler. Pure contrariness, said the sisters of the Holy Cross. This must be eradicated. The trait and the treatment persisted. Unsought advice came from a friend. One evening over the post-dinner port, Wilfred Harding, the family’s friend and doctor, said to Arthur Seymour, My dear chap, you cannot allow this abnormal behaviour. The child appears particularly stubborn. Strong measures must be taken. Tie her left arm behind her back for a few weeks, and she’ll soon change her ways.

The doting father demurred. My daughter is sensitive, with an artistic nature. It might affect her sensibilities and damage her health. He was ahead of his time, and too fond of Beth to inflict pain. Dr Harding shrugged and changed the subject.

Piano lessons began in the home. This may strengthen your naughty little fingers, scolded Joan. She and Maude, the firstborn with no gift for music, listened to the lessons from the kitchen as they prepared lunch. Despite her qualifications and her elegance, which included a small bunch of violets on her ruffled collar, Miss Stevens, the young teacher, had to admit defeat after three lessons. Her proven success with other pupils, also children of the well to do, was lost on Beth, despite the pupil’s enthusiasm. The left hand predominated and the right was an unequal partner.

Dabbing at her eyes with a tiny piece of lace, Miss Stevens told Beth’s parents, Dear sir and Madam, I am taking your money under false pretences. Dear little Beth tries so hard, but she cannot adapt. Forgive me for saying so, but I do not agree with the punishment she receives at school. Poor child, there are red stripes on her hand when it is not her fault. She offered a refund for the first month’s tuition but the parents refused. Beth wept as Miss Stevens departed, leaving a trail of violet water fragrance.

In Beth’s tenth year of life, Napier’s theatre patrons were in a buzz concerning the imminent arrival of the Australian company J.C. Williamson for a tour of New Zealand, which was to open in their city. Shakespeare’s rarely performed play, King John, was to be presented. The company came with a reputation for grand presentations, and the visiting production was a showcase for well-known Australian actors. Anticipation was high.

The Daily Telegraph ran an announcement about an upcoming audition for the role of Prince Arthur, the young heir to the English throne. Eligible children between 10 and 12 years of age, male or female, might apply. The Seymours’ friends urged them to send Beth along to try for the part. Well-rehearsed by her family in her set speech, Beth had to wait three long hours with her mother before she was called. The following day, the stage manager’s assistant telephoned the Seymours. The lucky Miss Seymour had been chosen from a 20-strong field of talented local children. The rehearsal schedule, and a handsomely bound script with her role highlighted, was delivered to the family home the same day. Beth was ecstatic.

As she grew, the child lost her baby chubbiness, and was now a slender and vivacious girl, with long dark hair and expressive eyes. Her tendency to treat everyday incidents as minor dramas, and her occasional moodiness, needed firm guidance from her parents.

That’ll be an advantage, said her admirers. She has enough temperament to play the role well.

Napier’s bookshop enjoyed a rush of sales for copies of Shakespeare’s works – the play was unfamiliar. Prince Arthur, the juvenile role, was a tragic youth caught between his wicked Uncle John, and England’s throne. The character had wonderful lines in colourful scenes, but he was doomed to be murdered.

Arthur and Joan were permitted to accompany their daughter to the first onstage reading of the play, when the actors were shown their entrances and exits. Joan, clutching Arthur’s arm, became agitated at the scripted threats against the young heir. Oh my dear, she whispered as they sat in the auditorium watching the actors in their street clothes becoming familiar with the dense text. This tragedy could mar Beth’s nature, you know her excessive sensitivity.

It is obvious to me, said Arthur, observing closely, his chin propped on the ever present walking stick, that Beth relishes all of this. She appears to be in her element. I believe this play will focus her energy and her artistic education can only be broadened by contact with the great writer. Furthermore, that lady you see beside her, prompting and assisting, is her tutor, and I am sure she will keep our young miss well in hand.

On each day of the two weeks of rehearsals, a horse-drawn buggy collected Beth at eight. Fred the farm horse, between the shafts, was always ready for the carrots Beth took from the larder for him. Delivered to the stage door of Napier’s Municipal Theatre, Beth was met by Miss Minnie Hooper, the company’s voice and movement coach. Tiny, formidable, and not much taller than her pupil, she would be the child’s constant companion. Beth would not be out of her sight during the long days ahead until after the final night’s performance. Miss Hooper wore long loose skirts to rehearsal, and a shirt printed with Chinese peonies. Her diminutive size was deceptive. She projected a powerful personality and possessed the voice of a sergeant major. Arthur was sure that his daughter had met her match.

A full day’s regime began immediately. As the early frosts silvered the lawns and gardens outside, Miss Minnie, the only member of the company who did not indulge Beth, moulded her pupil into the role. Before the Australian actors arrived, Beth needed the practice as a complete beginner in stagecraft. The brisk woman taught her how to use the space upstage and downstage, how to project her voice, how to time the delivery of lines, awareness of the audience that was invisible in the inky blackness beyond the footlight, all the things that the rest of the cast had known all their professional lives. Miss Minnie played the other parts – she knew every word.

Slaps for the pupil’s occasional mispronunciation or forgetfulness were normal, and murmurs of protest ignored.

Stagecraft is acquired over many years, said Miss Minnie. We’ll see if you can be licked into shape in the short time we have together.

At home each evening, after the exhausted child had eaten her meal, the family helped Beth to learn her speeches. Soon she’d be expected to leave her book in the wings. All three were stern critics, immune to the occasional tantrum.

Art is all, said her father, without it, we are mere apes. Again, please, with more emphasis – and kindly remove that scowl from your face. Remember, Hubert has orders to kill you. Your life depends on this verbal duel.

Each morning, through the bellbirds’ liquid calls, Beth enjoyed the brief drive from her home behind the plodding horse and the sleepy driver. It was a respite from both demanding sets of adults at either end of the journey. On the way, she would go over her lines for the day’s scene. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? she pleaded with Hubert, her jailer, then forgot the next bit. Oh bother, she’d mutter, and take a quick peek at the script. The previous day, after one short week of practice, Miss Minnie had told her, From next week, you are expected to be word perfect and to know all your stage movements. The tasks seemed an impossible challenge to a ten year old, but with total concentration, and the generous warmth and advice from the cast, the role soon became Beth’s other self. In the closed atmosphere of purpose and activity, steeped in the realities of dynastic politics, the cast forgot the world outside.

Young Arthur, as the cast and crew called her, became a favourite. She was petted and encouraged by her fellow actors, especially Miss Florence MacNally, who played King John’s mother, the principal female role. She was a handsome woman, in buttoned boots, and with a high bosom. Beth couldn’t avoid the suffocating hugs, pats on the head, and gifts of sticky toffees.

On stage, each character was locked into the power struggle for England, the ultimate prize. Offstage, when the child was praised for every effort, Miss Minnie thought it necessary to administer an antidote. Remember the cap with the feather you’ll be wearing for your first appearance? she said loudly, for all to hear. If your head swells much more, it won’t fit.

The play’s director, Mr Edgar Tutton, was a formidable man, with piercing eyes and a shock of silver hair. He would disarrange his locks with agitated fingers when actors faltered or questioned his directions, but he was pleased with Beth. He told Miss Minnie, Good work, at least she’ll be ready on the night, with a glare for Mr Albert Lear. Once a fine Hamlet, the actor, in the role of the French King, had a tendency to move upstage, drawing attention away from his fellow actor. It was an old, familiar trick. Bad form, old boy, jolly bad form, muttered King John, halfway through rehearsals. Don’t forget, I’m the one with the sword!

The large crew of stagehands carried the flats depicting castle walls, and heavy pieces of furniture, including the King of France’s throne, which the cast members had to dodge as they made their way behind the scenes. There were safety signs on the walls backstage, and a fire curtain reminded everyone of the risks involved in a major theatre production. During each performance, a fireman sat stolidly in the opposite prompt corner with a bucket of sand at the ready. The gas-fired footlights could be a hazard. There were 22 cast members, several of whom played double parts, as well as several musicians and two dressers, who also oversaw makeup. For the school child in the midst of the make believe, the theatre was a place of wonder, a home that appeared unreal.

The action of the play moved from Northampton Palace to Angiers in France, and thence into the gloomy dungeon where Beth’s favourite scene took place – Arthur’s tear-inducing plea to Hubert to save him from a terrible fate. Oh spare mine eyes – though to no use but still to look on thee!

Even Miss Minnie was moved as the prince fell on his knees. She told her charge, That wasn’t too bad, do it exactly like that every time.

The encouragement Beth received was a spur to do better. These nice people are here to help me succeed, and I will, I will. She was in her element, but the constant work with her tiny tyrant in charge was physically tiring. In the last week before the opening night, she stood alone on stage, spotlit for her big soliloquy, delivering the bard’s poignant words to the Stygian gloom of the auditorium over and over again. From midway down the rows of padded seats, or worse, from the gods, the highest level with the cheapest seating, a fluting voice called out: Can’t hear you, my dear. Cat got your tongue? Remember, project from the diaphragm, enunciate, and stop this wretched mumbling.

Again, and yet again, little Beth reshaped the phrases until the meaning emerged clearly, until every word was audible and every gesture moving, while her legs and head ached with fatigue. She choked back tears of frustration as she struggled with the unfamiliar words and emotions. Rebellion got her nowhere with Miss Minnie.

Arthur and Joan Seymour had to ask permission of the stately Reverend Mother of Beth’s primary school for Beth to be absented from her lessons during the play’s run. First, her parents held a consultation with the parish priest, Father Brendon, who then discussed the matter with the head of the school. Prince Arthur won exemption on the grounds of Mr Shakespeare’s literary contribution to the arts. An item in the church’s newsletter stated, Miss Elizabeth Seymour, a promising young pupil at the Holy Cross Convent school, has been granted suspension of her studies for the period of one month. Her involvement in such a prestigious event, and the historical content of King John, by the great Bard of Avon, will enhance the standing of this scholastic establishment.

Father Brendon, and the Reverend Mother, graciously accepted the theatre management’s offer of free tickets for the opening night. Naturally, there were critics of the special exemption – mostly a few disgruntled mothers who accused the school authorities of favouritism, but they died down. One did not argue with representatives of the Church.

During each long day, Beth spent the times when she was not needed on stage sitting cross legged in the opposite prompt corner. Fascinated, she watched the adults in their scenes as she gnawed an apple, and waited for her own appearances with the ensemble. Intent on every movement, every utterance, the juvenile actor learned the power of performance to move the heart and wring tears from the audience.

One wonderful morning, in the costume and wig room, the chief dresser fastened Beth into her character’s full costume, a medieval style black velvet tunic which reached to her knees, leggings, and soft shoes with pointy toes. She loved those, and walked with carefully placed feet. Strutting to and fro past the oval mirror, she admired each view of the outfit.

Now, she was fully in character. Her hair had been cut into a short bob with a heavy fringe, and the young prince looked every inch the heir to the throne of England.

At last, the day of the opening arrived. At Beth’s home, Arthur, elated at their young daughter’s elevation to the stage, cleared his throat and said, Elizabeth, you are an extremely fortunate girl. Your mother and I know that you will do your best. We have every confidence that you have the fortitude to carry off this difficult role. Tonight, we’ll see the result of these past weeks. We are all delighted at your progress. Maude, dressed for school, had set the table and prepared the morning porridge. Her younger sister was exempt from household duties until the end of the season. At home, her elder sister resented her. Maude, the one who helped her mother with the housework, collected the ironing, cooked meals, weeded the garden, and attended school every day. There were no exemptions for her.

Although valued by Joan, Maude knew that she couldn’t compete with her sibling. She lacked her younger sister’s ability to woo, and win, hearts, especially her father’s.

Constantly hearing Beth’s praises sung, Maude was fed up. She banged Beth’s plate down, her face flushed with anger.

Her father listened in disapproval as she snapped, I hope for all our sakes, little madam, that you prove yourself worthy of this opportunity. You’re certainly lucky to be living the life of the famous French actress, Sarah Bernhardt. I’m just the skivvy, helping Mama with all the household duties.

Arthur, looking down his Norman nose, said reprovingly, Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I am ashamed to hear a daughter of mine resenting her sister’s good fortune. It will be your turn, too, someday – meanwhile, you may ask pardon for your ill humour, and we’ll say no more about it. Joan, mindful of Maude’s just complaint, whispered to her elder daughter, You and I will go to McGregor’s store after school, dear, and buy that long dress you admired, to wear to the theatre, you know, the one with the lace collar. Mollified, Maude was grateful. This would be her first grownup gown.

That night, waiting in the wings with the ever-present Miss Minnie beside her, Beth closed her eyes and breathed deeply. This moment was the culmination of all the weeks of rehearsal, when the complex work in which her role was a pivotal part would be presented. Her nostrils registered the mingled odours of greasepaint, the glue from the wigs worn by some of the cast, and the dust of many years emanating from the heavy, closed stage curtains. Beyond their concealing folds, the assembled audience buzzed, chatted and rustled their programs.

It’s a full house! the stage manager had announced earlier to each actor’s dressing room. The excited chatter and program rustling filtered through to the actors already on the set for Act 1 Scene 1.

Prince Arthur, disputed heir to the English throne, entered in a royal throng which included his mother, Constance, and his uncle, King John of England.

From that first appearance, dressed in the heavy velvet tunic and gold chain which proclaimed his rank, to her final scene, the child lived her role. The boy she played, although a mere pawn on the dynastic chessboard, fought against his fate with words and courage, and Beth made the most of every line and gesture. By Act IV, the tragic prince’s pleas to his jailer, Hubert, to spare his eyes and his life brought muffled sobs from the audience. Even more heart stopping was the dramatic leap from the parapet. As the boy fell to his death, his last scream lingered throughout the final scenes, which seemed tame by comparison.

The wall is high, and yet will I leap down:

Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!

There’s few or none do know me: if they did,

This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguised me quite.

I am afraid; and yet I’ll venture it.

If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I’ll find a thousand shifts to get away:

As good to die and go, as die and stay.

O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones:

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

Flanked by the cast as they advanced to the footlights for the curtain call, her ears ringing with the cheers and applause, Beth looked to Miss Minnie, standing in the wings: her approval was the most important. The simple Well done, young miss!, and the smile which wreathed the face of her tough mentor, was the best moment of all.

As each actor stepped forward, the applause continued. The ladies sank into full-skirted curtsies, and the men bowed with an Elizabethan flourish, then Beth, placed near the centre, next to Madame MacNally, her costume artfully daubed in fake blood from the death leap, gave a huge sigh. She beamed at the audience, stepped forward, and took her very own bow. Then, all linked hands as the play’s director, Mr Tutton, and Miss Minnie Hooper, joined them for the final call.

As the huge curtain finally shrouded the players, the Seymours and some of their closest friends squeezed into the throng backstage. Proudly flanking their small daughter, they were told by Wilfred Harding, whose opinion they valued, Of course, we’ve long anticipated fame for this little lady, he smiled, and patted Beth’s head, ever since she fought so hard to be noticed!

Beth blushed. Overwhelmed by the surrounding faces, and the pride shown by her parents, she barely felt the discreet pat on the arm from Maude, looking quite grown up in her new gown. Had she been asked, Beth could not have described her feelings on that first night of King John.

The season ran to the final night and ended with a flourish when the assembled cast advanced to the footlights, to be showered with flowers and streamers. There were many curtain calls. Miss Minnie gave her a warm handshake, and Mrs McNally embraced her so tightly that the lady’s corsets creaked. Never forget, my dear little girl, cooed the motherly actress, you were the first Arthur, and you were wonderful. With the feather boa tickling her nose, Beth sobbed.

The inevitable downside arrived when the child actor was separated from her stage family. The intense, shared experience had ended. In each city the company subsequently visited in New Zealand, another child would play Beth’s role.

Back in class at the convent, Beth felt deflated. Surrounded by her daily companions, she was just one of many treading the daily routine of lessons and prayers in the chapel. It was a huge let down. The energy she had poured into performances was now needed to maintain decorum, obedience and piety within the confines of the convent’s strict rules and regulations.

Walk on your toes, you are ladies, not cart horses. No running. Eyes lowered when in company. Modesty, no impure thoughts, be gently spoken at all times.The litany was unceasing, and the restrictions stifling.

Many pairs of eyes watched ceaselessly, including the holy pictures on the classroom walls – the saints, the Pope and the Saviour. The images tilted dangerously on long cords. When Beth was bored, which was often, she liked to fantasise that the cord on