Volcano Street by David Rain Page A

confetti.’
    ‘Howard Brooker’s in on it, of course.’
    ‘Mr Stick-His-Oar-Into-Everything? No doubt –’
    ‘… But Howard, what’s this Webber bloke trying to say? I’ve heard it’s blasphemy, pure and simple.’
    ‘Of course, there’s no resurrection in Superstar …’
    Skip was nerving herself for a second raid on the canapés when a spoon clinked a glass. The Sanctum fell silent. She craned her neck; the clinking had come from Mr Novak, but he gestured at once to his wife, who stepped into a clear space beneath the chandelier that illumined the long room.
    Under bright light, Mrs Novak looked older than she had seemedat first. Her face, which had seen a lot of sun, was withered, and her neck speckled and reddish, ridged with tendons that stood out like wires. Smiling, she waited for the applause to die down, then began, speaking with seeming casualness, though Skip sensed the emotion behind the words. Tonight meant a lot to Deirdre Novak. And so, no doubt, did Howard Brooker.
    ‘Thank you, my good friends. Some of you know that this is a special night. But if you’re still wondering what it’s all about, it’s time to tell you. Lord knows we do our best here in Crater Lakes. It’s all of you’ – she stretched out her arms and the bangles clattered – ‘who provide this town with what culture it has. We’re lucky. There’s Mr Heinz’s art club.’ She gestured to Rolf Harris. ‘There’s Mrs Boucher’s pottery class.’ A plump matron blushed. ‘We’ve the book club. We’ve the library. We’ve these evenings in the Sanctum. But something’s missing. It’s been missing a long time.
    ‘The Crater Lakes Players was once a thriving concern. What happened to the Players? One of our triumphs, and we let it lapse. We were wrong, wrong!’ The admission, it seemed, was a significant one for her. ‘We need a local drama society. Oh yes, we’ve talked about this before, dreamed of it. But we needed someone, a man of vision, to turn our dreams into reality. Well, that man’s here. He’s come amongst us only this year, but already he’s a force to be reckoned with. You know who I’m talking about. Howard Brooker, tell us about your vision.’
    Mr Brooker’s vision! Was it time to go back to Auntie Noreen’s? Her English teacher, Skip had decided, was a bighead and a bore.
    Fresh applause broke out as he joined his hostess in the middle of the room. Another man might have been embarrassed by the fulsome introduction, but Mr Brooker took it as a matter of course. He wore a green corduroy jacket over a floral shirt, crotch-hugging jeans with a chunky belt buckle, and elaborate reddish cowboy boots. He blew out smoke in a long stream.
    ‘Deirdre’s right,’ he declared ringingly, as if challenging anyone to disagree. ‘A town this size needs a good drama company. That’s why Deirdre and I have decided to launch the New Crater Lakes Players.’
    The cheers were loud. A lady cried, ‘Bravo!’
    ‘Oh, I know there’ve been a few attempts at reviving amateur drama here in the Lakes. I’ve heard’ – his tone was bantering – ‘there was a nice production of Salad Days a few years back, and of course the high’s put on a show or two – Oliver! last year, Bye Bye Birdie the year before – but we’re talking about a much more ambitious scheme.
    ‘People say you can’t be ambitious with amateurs, you have to pander, you have to patronise. I’ve never believed that. It’s my conviction that first-class drama, acted boldly, must find its audience. Deirdre’s shown me the scrapbooks for the Crater Lakes Players, who last performed over twenty years ago. She hasn’t looked at them in all that time. Not keen to revive old memories. I understand. She’s always been one to look forward, to embrace the future. Well, so am I. But it’s the past that shows us the way to the future. And those who forget the past will never surpass it. Shall we do better? I think we shall.
    ‘We’ve laid