Hello. I’m Emma Walton Hamilton, and I’m gonna be reading an excerpt from a book that I co-wrote with my mother, Julie Andrews Edwards. The book is called The Great American Mousical and it’s a story about theater mice who live and work and perform below the boards of a great Broadway theater and put on their own shows in their own miniature version of the theater downstairs.
Just before this section that I’m about to read to you from, the mice troop have been in rehearsal for a great benefit — their annual gala to help mice in need. It’s called Broadway Airs, and they’ve been rehearsing, but something strange has been happening to the theater and they’re not sure what it means. There’s been sounds and shaking and debris falling, and they’re a little bit concerned about what the ramifications of that might be. So let me begin
Suddenly, inexplicably, the stage began to shake. A low, menacing rumble came from above and the hanging lamps in the rafters rattled and swung together, their colored lenses breaking into shards. Members of the company screamed and ducked as plaster and glass rained down on stage like a shower. Parents and stage hands ran on to the set and carried children out of harm’s way. Just as suddenly the shaking stopped.
Enoch, the stage manager, rushed out. “Is everyone all right? Anyone hurt?” No one was. Adelaide, the leading lady, said heatedly, “Can anyone explain what that was?” No one could. Emile, the director, called, “I suggest that we go and find out
” but he never finished the sentence for the shaking began again, worse this time. One end of the hanging painted drop broke free and fell at an angle skewering onto the stage, narrowly missing Adelaide. She looked up indignant. “Hey,” she called out to no one in particular. Splinters of wood, dust and debris hurtled into the wings where Wendy was standing.
Curly launched himself in front of her pushing her out of danger in the nick of time. She gasped and looked at him wide-eyes. “Curly, thank you so much. What on earth is happening?” By now, most of the mice were dashing for the stairs leading to the human theater. They streamed down the main corridor where the rumbling noise was even louder and spilled on to the pavement outside the big stage door, tumbling and falling over one another as they skidded to a halt. Maneuvering back and forth in an attempt to park next to the curb was a monster of a machine.
Electric yellow with giant crawler tracks instead of wheels. A cab and a vast crane formed the super structure. Hanging from the crane was a thick chain with a huge, black, concrete ball at the end of it. “What is it? What is it?” The mice children asked, gazing up in awe. Everyone had a question. “What does it do? What is it there for? What can it mean?” Pops, the stage door man held up a paw for silence. “Listen up, folks. Perhaps I can explain.” He told them that as he was leaving the previous evening, he had heard human voices in the main corridor upstairs — a father and his son.
Their conversation didn’t make much sense to him. The father was saying odd things such as, “We own the theater now,” and they talked about a television studio and big bucks. Pops continued, “They used words like demolition and new construction.” Pippin, the apprentice gasped as he remembered the phrase he had heard last night. “They’ll be scurrying soon.” He raised an arm for attention and told the mice of his own experience with the people.
“It must mean that the Sovereign is gonna be torn down to make way for a new building,” he said with horror. “I guess that’s what this huge machine is for.” They all began to speak at once. What would happen to their beautiful, little theater? Would there be enough time to produce the big benefit? Would they all be out of work? What could they possibly do?
