Flying by the Seat of my Pants
August
BRANWORTH STATION, BRANWORTH STATION, next stop,’ cuts in the guard’s muffled voice over the tannoy. I put Miranda away with the other three scripts – the other three, untouched, UNLEARNED scripts.
I swing my rucksack onto my back and feel a twinge.
I wonder if I’m capable of learning four parts in almost as many weeks, when I have difficulty memorising passwords.
The Jeremy Hart Repertory Company is one of the few left of its kind. Nowadays most actors have the luxury of at least three weeks of rehearsal; not so here, with a new play to learn every week. The audiences are made up of the local community and regulars, who plan their holidays around the play season. Many of the actors have appeared here year after year and have a huge local fan base.
When I’m not required to rehearse, I have to hunt for props, help paint the set, assist the wardrobe department, beg shops and restaurants to display our posters, and keep tea, coffee, milk, and biscuit supplies replenished.
* * *
‘Three pound sixty, duck,’ says the taxi driver, as we draw up outside Gloria’s Hollywood Apartments – reputedly the best theatrical digs in town.
I push a fiver into his hand. ‘Keep the change,’ I say distractedly, looking upwards.
‘I’ll look for your name in lights!’ he calls, peeping his horn as he pulls away from the kerb.
I press the buzzer. A figure descends through the frosted glass, and I am face to face with a lady sporting a dated beehive, tight, velour top, leopard skin, stretchy ski pants, and black satin slippers with fluffy feathers.
‘You must be Emily. I’m Gloria. Come in, love, and I’ll show you your apartment,’ she says, beckoning me inside. ‘You’re in the Bette Davis Studio,’ she announces proudly, as she bustles up the flock-wallpapered stairway in a vapour of 4711 cologne and nicotine, gold pendants jingling. Framed, black and white, signed photographs of Gloria with various celebs whom I vaguely recognise from old sitcoms and soaps cram every square inch.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ she asks.
‘Mmm, yes, please,’ I reply, dropping my rucksack to the floor. She disappears in a swish of bamboo curtain, through to the galley kitchen.
‘How about a Gypsy Cream as well?’ she calls. ‘You must be starving after your journey.’
‘That’d be great.’
I take in my surroundings; the living room-cum-bedroom is spotlessly clean, with a standard lamp, crushed velveteen settee and sheepskin rug. There’s a giant television in one corner and a single bed in the other, covered in a paisley-patterned eiderdown. The walls are artexed, giving them that rough, Seventies, faux-farmhouse effect. Off the corridor is the burgundy bathroom suite, with matching, twisted-loop pedestal mat and loo seat cover.
‘You know, I always fancied being an actress myself,’ says Gloria, handing me my tea and biscuit. ‘When my mother died and left me the house, I decided to convert it and take in theatricals. They’ve all stayed here: the Roley-Poleys, Hinge and Bracket, Cannon and Ball, the Krankies, Dottie Wayne, Joe Pasquale … and last week I had the cast of Saturday Night Fever. If you could pay me on a Friday, please – and I prefer cash. Oh, and don’t forget to sign my visitors’ book before you leave. Don’t hesitate to knock if you need anything,’ she says handing me my key, then clip-clopping down the stairs.
After unpacking, I wander down to the beach, and out to the end of the deserted pier. I look out at the heaving ocean and draw a deep breath. So, this is the life I’ve dreamed of – the life of a jobbing actress – how will it pan out? What will the rest of the cast be like? What if I can’t remember my lines?
I head back towards the shore, buffeted along by the strong wind, whipped up from the sea. As I draw closer, I notice the lights are on in the chippy. I order a haddock supper, which I devour with greasy fingers on a bench in a draughty, graffiti-covered shelter.
With the light now starting to fade, I find my way to the little repertory theatre.
SEE TWO PLAYS IN ONE WEEK! boasts the poster pasted outside. And there’s my name in tiny print at the bottom of the cast list. No backing out now. I look down the list of plays, and the scary thought of all those lines hastens me back to Gloria’s for an early night.
* * *
Next morning, heart racing, I climb the stairs to the rehearsal studio. I pause momentarily as I turn the door handle and suck in a deep breath. The room is full of actors talking in loud, confident voices, laughing, squealing, hugging, and air-kissing one another.
‘Darling! How wonderful to see you again – can’t believe it’s been a year …’
‘Been working, much?’
‘Oh, this and that – a bit of voice-over work and one episode of The Street.’
‘I hardly recognised you – the Botox takes years off you …’
‘… I’m not complaining though – that soup commercial will pay my mortgage for the next six months …’
The door opens and Jeremy, the director, whom I recognise from the audition, appears, followed by his creative team.
‘Good morning, everyone, and welcome to The Civic Theatre for this, our fortieth anniversary season. Gather round,’ he says, indicating the circle of chairs. ‘Now, for the benefit of those who haven’t been here before, to my left is Babs, who’s in charge of wardrobe; Lesley, set designer; Ellis, lighting; Richard, sound; Mark, stage manager; and his second-in-command, Abi, DSM.’ (Deputy stage manager.)
‘Hi!’ says Abi, who is crouched on the floor, marking the layout of the set with white tape.
Jeremy looks anxiously at the door, then his watch. ‘Well, we’d better get started. Let’s go round the room, introduce yourselves, and then tell us the name of the character you’ll be playing in our opening production.’
The door flies open and a well-preserved actress I vaguely recognise from an Eighties’ sitcom sweeps into the room, a long, red PVC raincoat draped around her shoulders, clutching what looks like a meerkat with hair extensions.
‘So sorry I’m late, Jeremy darling. You know how I hate early mornings.’
‘Margo darling!’ gushes Jeremy, leaping to his feet and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Let me grab you a pew.’
Scooping up a chair, he announces, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, she doesn’t need introducing, but put your hands together please, and give a warm welcome to our leading lady, Margo Dalziel!’
Margo smiles graciously, gives a regal wave and says, ‘Aren’t you forgetting someone, darling? This is Phoebe, everyone,’ she says, proudly holding up a scrawny paw. ‘You see, she’s saying “hello”,’ she gushes, smothering the yelping meerkat in kisses.
‘Right, let’s crack on, folks,’ booms Jeremy over-brightly, eyes studying the ceiling. ‘Here are your rehearsal schedules. Please take one and pass them on …’
As my eyes run down the schedule, my stomach twists and my heart quickens. I am perfectly prepared to earn my thespian wings by working my socks off, but I can’t help feeling a tad panic-stricken when I realise that after opening night, we begin rehearsals early the following morning for the next production, whilst performing the play we rehearsed the last week every evening, with matinées on Thursdays and Saturdays.
At the end of each run, I have to pack away all the props, help ‘strike’ (take down) the set and put up the new one, which I have to dress with the curtains, pictures, rugs, books, ornaments etc. I have somehow miraculously sourced in time for the full dress rehearsal at 2.30.
At the risk of appearing a diva, when exactly am I to learn my lines, let alone eat, sleep, wash my smalls? I raise my hand gingerly.
‘And so to our first play, Miranda,’ says Jeremy, pulling a file from his bag. ‘Emily, our latest recruit, is to play our mischievous mermaid.’
Jeremy motions for me to stand up. All eyes swivel in my direction. I slowly lower my arm, tugging at my recently cropped hair, wishing it would magically grow back.
It’s obvious what they are all thinking, and I want to say, I know, I know I’m at least twenty years too old for the part, but is it my fault their first choice got a last-minute offer to play Liesl in The Sound of Music?
* * *
‘This isn’t Phantom of the Opera,’ grumbles Babs that afternoon at my wardrobe fitting. ‘We simply don’t have the budget for wigs. Why Jeremy cast you, I have no idea. He should have consulted me first.’
I open my mouth to speak but think better of it.
A long, blonde wig is eventually found scrunched up in a Tesco carrier bag from a 2001 production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and after a gentle soak in some Dreft, it is grudgingly met with Babs’s approval.
* * *
My very first scene is with Charles, the chauffeur, who has to carry me on stage and around the room, whilst I marvel at the furnishings and paintings.
According to the script, Charles is broad and tough-looking, so don’t ask me why five-foot-five Vincent Crumb has been cast in this role. Vince is as camp as Rio Carnival and skinny as a rake. I may not be Victoria Beckham, but the way he wobbles and wheezes as he carts me around, makes me feel less like a delicate mermaid, and more like a beached whale.
‘We haven’t time to spend on this now, so please can you work on this scene in your own time?’ says Jeremy, clutching his forehead. ‘Right, moving on …’
* * *
Like Sir Ian and Dame Judi, I used to bemoan the demise of weekly repertory, where fledgling actors like me could hone their ‘craft’ (to use luvvy-speak). Why, oh why is this wonderful institution being allowed to disappear? This will kill British theatre, I thought. But that was before the reality of fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants rep kicked in …
* * *
Miranda – Opening Night
‘Everyone got their personal props?’ calls Abi, standing in the doorway, scanning her clipboard.
‘I’ve lost a glove!’
‘Anyone got any hairspray?’
‘Can you call Babs? A button’s just come off my jacket.’
‘Has anyone seen my cigarette holder?’
Excited chatter from the auditorium blares through the speakers. Every seat sold. I feel sick.
During the dress rehearsal this afternoon I ‘dried’ three times, and my wig got caught in the zip of my tail during a quick scene change.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, just like Faye taught me to, in an attempt to steady my frazzled nerves. I breathe in the sweet perfume of the two bouquets of flowers on my dressing table: freesias from Mum and Dad, and pink roses from Francesco. I glance at the card and smile a private smile.
In bocca al lupo, cara! Fx
Mamma mia, if he could see me now, I think as I stare at the Donatella Versace lookalike in the mirror.
‘Act One beginners, please.’
I’m not on for nine pages, but set off early to allow myself time to waddle down to prompt corner in my fishtail. I also need to have a practice-run in the wheelchair, which only materialised half an hour ago.
I scoot up and down the backstage area, heart going da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.
‘We have clearance,’ announces Mark, giving the thumbs-up. ‘Break a leg, everyone!’
The lights go down, and the curtain goes up on Act One, Scene One.
‘Fade music. Cue telephone … go!’ whispers Abi into her mic.
Limbering up stage left is Betty, the maid, played by Tamara, an actress fresh out of drama school. The green cue light is illuminated, and with a little skip and a jump, she takes to the stage.
Ten minutes! Ten minutes of our precious rehearsal time was spent discussing ‘motive’ and which room Betty’s in when the telephone rings.
‘As it’s late afternoon, I feel she’s in the kitchen putting away the tea things, or maybe preparing the vegetables for dinner. Which scenario do you prefer, Jeremy?’ she’d said. ‘I could even be wiping my hands on my apron as I enter.’
My jaw had tightened. Yeah, yeah, whatever, sweetheart. This is weekly rep, remember, not the bloody National Theatre. Just get on with it. How I wish Jeremy would put her in her place.
Despite being the youngest member of the company, Tamara doesn’t have to carry out ASM duties. She’s the daughter of the well-known playwright and director, Maurice de Fresnes, and is therefore leapfrogging her way up the theatrical ladder.
‘I know, I know she can be rather tricky,’ Jeremy had said, taking me aside on one particularly bad rehearsal day. ‘But what you have to remember is that she was in an award-winning short film at last year’s Lithuanian Film Festival. And like it or not, we are lucky to have her as she’s being mooted as the next Carey Mulligan.’
So, this is her licence to get away with murder; she’s either having a tantrum, on the verge of tears, doing incessant warm-ups, or prancing about, practising her red-carpet smile.
Vince swigs water from one of the bottles on the props table, his eyes darting about nervously.
The green light comes on. Knees bent, he scoops me up into his bony arms, and we veer onto the shaky set of the doctor’s Bloomsbury flat.
Under the glare of the lights, it’s as if I am watching someone who looks and sounds like me moving around the stage and saying the lines.
‘“Am I heavy?”’
‘“No, Miss … quite the contrary.”’
‘“You look so very strong.”’
‘“Do I, Miss?”’
‘“What wonderful muscles!”’ (Snigger from the stalls.)
‘“I do a bit of amateur boxing, Miss,”’ groans Vince as he chucks me onto the sofa, one page early, which means I have no alternative but to cut my line, “Carry me round the room, will you, Charles?”
Civic Theatre stalwart, Vanessa Morrell, playing Clare, the doctor’s wife, swans on upstage right, saying, ‘“You can put Miss Trewella down, Cha…”’ and glowers in my direction.
I am dumped in the offstage darkness after my first scene, and fumble my way to the quick-change area, where Babs is standing by with my long dress and pearls, in preparation for Act Two, Scene One.
‘Breathe in,’ she commands through a mouthful of safety pins, yanking the waistband of the tail tighter around my midriff.
Meanwhile, Rocky Balboa is pacing up and down stage right, in preparation for round two …
If adrenaline gives a person the superhuman strength to lift a car, then please God, can it not do the same for Vince?
‘“Ah, here she is. Put Miss Trewella on the settee, Charles.”’ And my prayer is answered.
Our first-night nerves gradually vanish as Doctor Theatre works his magic, shifting the action up a gear, giving the lines punchiness and pace.
We are now just one scene away from the interval, and my favourite bit of the whole play, where I have the stage all to myself – the pivotal moment, where the audience realises for the first time that Miranda is not an invalid after all …
I flop into the wheelchair; Babs fusses with the ribbon of my négligée, and the jewelled clasp in my hair, then tucks the tartan blanket tightly around my legs and under my feet, so the tail doesn’t poke out.
Margo, playing the nurse (looking for all the world like Barbara Windsor in Carry On Doctor), pushes me on stage.
‘“Why did you never get married, Nurse Cary?”’
‘“I never wanted to,”’ she replies, her gin-infused breath wafting over me.
‘“Don’t you find men attractive?”’
‘“No … nor they me … which makes it easier.”’
‘I’d take you out any night of the week, sweetheart!’ comes a voice from the gods. Several guffaws echo around the auditorium.
Coquettishly batting her false eyelashes, Margo cries, ‘See you in the bar afterwards, darling!’ which prompts several wolf-whistles.
‘“I love men.”’ I yell this line, determined to get us back on track. Margo thumps the back of the chair and eventually says, ‘Well, well …’ This is not in the script, and therefore slightly worrying. She then proceeds to cut the next page of dialogue.
The lights slowly fade and the set is bathed in greeny-blue light. Thunder rolls, lightning flashes, the rain lashes against the windowpanes, and the haunting wisps of ‘Fingal’s Cave’ by Mendelssohn drift through the air. Cellos and bassoons gather momentum; Miranda, trance-like, removes her négligée (bit of a barney with Jeremy and Babs about this stage direction, due to my refusal to bare my assets to an audience of elderly holidaymakers – or any holidaymakers for that matter. Two large shells, strategically super-glued to flesh-coloured, strapless bra save the day). She lets down her flowing locks and flicks her scaly tail high into the air. Lightning, thunder, gasps from the audience, curtains, wild applause. This is what is supposed to happen …
‘“Goodnight. Turn on the wireless, will you; and switch off the lights as you go out.”’
‘“See you in the morning.”’
‘“Don’t forget my scallops.”’
“‘There are just as good fish in the sea as ever… Goodnight.’”
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
Why won’t the bloody thing move?
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
I push the wheels with all my might, but … NOTHING. I lean forward … if I could just reach the door handle … oops … nearly. The chair rocks back and forth. Nervous whispers come from the auditorium.
‘Release the brake!’ hisses Abi from the wings. Aha! How stupid of me. I grab the lever and flick it to the down position; the chair starts to roll backwards on the raked stage, towards the orchestra pit. The audience holds its collective breath as I push the wheels forward with all my might and hurtle towards the French windows, crashing into the small table, with the goldfish bowl on it.
MIRANDA LOOSENS HER HAIR SO THAT IT CASCADES DOWN OVER HER SHOULDERS.
My trembling hand, now slippy with sweat, can’t get the hair clip to undo. I tug at it, and the wig moves precariously to the side, so decide to abandon that bit of business.
I’m trapped, unable to move, the négligée and blanket now tangled up in the wheels.
Please bring the tabs in and end the agony. Pleeeease.
The curtains come in slowly, jerkily, and our first-night audience is left at the interval, doubtless believing that Miranda is a horror story, with the central character bearing a scary resemblance to Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho.
* * *
Just as we are getting into our stride, the run reaches its end and it’s on to play two.
Thank the Lord I haven’t a part in this one, so can relax a little and focus on finding props and painting the set.
But then at the dress rehearsal, Jeremy drops a bombshell:
‘Darling,’ he says in a low voice as he places a suspiciously reassuring arm round my shoulders. ‘We have a bit of a – situation on our hands …’
‘What kind of a – “situation”?’ I ask tentatively.
‘It’s nothing to worry about …’
Why do I get the feeling he’s lying?
‘Our sister theatre in Blackpool is having serious technical problems with some new sound equipment. The producer’s having a hissy fit and is demanding that Richard be there tomorrow for the opening night, and – well, our budget doesn’t stretch to a freelance sound engineer, soooo, as the only spare member of the stage management team, the duty falls to you, my sweet.’
My stomach plummets like a drop tower. He CANNOT be serious.
‘Oh, Jeremy, please let’s get one thing straight,’ I say with pleading eyes. ‘I may be a dab hand at splashing a bit of paint around, or knocking a couple of bits of wood together, or finding props for you, but operating a sound desk? I can’t even operate my DVD player properly.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says with feigned conviction. ‘You can shadow Richard tonight, and the systems here are all manual, not a computer in sight, so you see, you’ll be fine, trust me. Okay, everyone, let’s start from where we left off – the top of Act Two, please!’
I now know what ASM really stands for: A Stupid Mug.
* * *
Ahoy there! A Farce (What an understatement.)
Here I am in a tiny, hot, soundproof box at the back of the auditorium. It’s airless, rank with sweat (where’s a Jo Malone scented candle when you need one?) and has a deck of dials and switches that reminds me of the cockpit of a 747.
The door opens and Mark’s head peers round.
‘Good luck!’ he says, giving me the thumbs-up.
‘House lights, down. Cue music … go!’ crackles Abi’s voice through my headphones (or ‘cans’, as the techies call them). My quivering finger depresses the switch, and the theme music from Desert Island Discs swells the theatre.
‘Fade music. Sound cue one … go!’ cuts in Abi’s voice again. The tinny sound of rolling waves and the screech of gulls sifts through the speakers, setting the scene. Phew. I wind the reel-to-reel tape to the next red marker. There are several pages of dialogue before my next cue, so daring to relax a little, I take a swig of water and look down onto the set and my, dare I say, impressive handiwork. The balsa wood palm trees look surprisingly realistic (as long as no one leans against them), although my last-minute brainwave of dressing the stage with real coconuts (2 for 1 at Morrisons) is proving to be a bit of a safety hazard.
The play is a three-hander, and as the only female in the cast, Margo is in her element, playing a femme fatale, shipwrecked on a desert island with her husband and her lover. This week she is wearing a skimpy, low-cut, raggedy tunic, held together with angel breath. Her character is supposed to be in her twenties, but I’m learning that being top of the bill here has its perks – other than financial – one of them being you get to choose your own parts and costumes.
‘Cue music … go!’ calls Abi. ‘Well done, Emily, you made it to the interval. Fifteen minutes, please.’
Blimey, maybe I’m not such a technophobe after all. Who knows, if this acting lark doesn’t work out, a career as a sound engineer might not be beyond the realms of possibility.
There is a knock at the door and Ellis enters, carrying a mug of tea and a Kit Kat.
‘Hey, well done, you! Richard had better watch out – we have a budding sound engineer in our midst.’
‘Please don’t tempt fate.’ I smile through my slug of tea.
‘Just do exactly what you did in the first half and you’re home and dry.’ He winks reassuringly, shutting the door behind him.
The three bells ring out.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats as this evening’s performance of Ahoy There! will continue in two minutes. Two minutes please.’
* * *
Only three more sound cues to go until we reach the end of the play. Whey hey! I can almost taste that glass of chilled Sauvignon waiting for me at the bar.
‘“Rupert, I think I can see something in the distance. Could it be … could it be a ship?”’
I slowly wind the tape forward manually, in preparation for the ship’s siren, two pages of dialogue hence. Hmm. Strange. Can’t see the marker. Rewind the tape using the switch this time, and look again. No red marker. Maybe I didn’t wind it on far enough. I press the fast-forward switch. Whirr. Nothing. I press rewind. Whirr. Nothing.
I’ve found a red marker on the tape but which sound effect is it?
‘Cue ship’s siren … go!’ instructs Abi. Heart knocking against my chest, I depress the switch, keeping everything crossed … and the screech of monkeys echoes around the auditorium.
‘“Rupert, Geoffrey, it is a ship!”’
‘“We have one flare left, thank God. I’ll just go and set it alight. They are bound to see us,”’ says Rupert, exiting stage right.
The budget and fire regulations won’t allow for pyrotechnics, so Rupert has to exit stage right, cover his face in soot as the flare sound effect is being played, then reappear on stage. Terror floods through my veins. It’s like watching a train about to crash in slow motion, and not being able to do a thing about it.
‘Cue flare … go!’ says Abi, the tiniest hint of exasperation in her usually super-cool voice.
Nothing.
‘Cue flare … go!’
Nothing.
‘What was that noise?’ ad-libs Margo, cupping her hand to her ear.
‘What noise?’
‘I think I heard the flare.’
‘Flare?’
‘The-one-Rupert-set-alight-just-now-over-yonder,’ she says loudly, with a dramatic gesture.
Rupert eventually stumbles back onto the stage, mouthing something into the wings. The three actors look at one another with fear in their eyes.
When will this end? After what seems an age, they start jumping up and down half-heartedly, calling, ‘“Ahoy there!”’
‘Cue ship’s siren … go!’
Silence.
Monday night’s punters are party to the rarely performed, alternative ending of Ahoy There, where the threesome is marooned for ever. And the face blackening? Well, that has some deep, symbolic meaning, which I haven’t quite worked out as yet.
* * *
Week Five: Murder on the Tenth Floor – A Thriller
This week I’m murdered in the first half of the play, thank God. A few lines at the beginning, followed by twenty-five minutes’ dead acting, until the interval. During the break, I have to change into my ‘blacks’ and take up the stage management duty of chief lift operator.
The play is set in a multi-storey office block. The ‘lift’ is a wooden, sliding door, painted silver. I have to squeeze in behind the scenery wall before the start of the second half, and wait for the red cue light to turn green. At Detective Inspector Lord and Sergeant Cooper’s entrance, the light comes on, and I pull the string attached to the top of the door as smoothly as I can. Then I’m stuck there until they exit, almost at the end of the play.
‘The door must positively gliiide, Emily,’ Jeremy had said. That’s all well and good, but he’s not the one squashed in there with practically no room to manoeuvre, let alone breathe.
The play is completely sold out – nothing like a good, juicy whodunnit to pull in the bored holidaymakers from their B&Bs on a dull, drizzly night in Branworth.
‘“Stay right where you are!”’ orders Vince, as this week’s villain, Jack Spencer. He flicks on the torch and trains the beam onto my face. ‘“I’m afraid you know too much,”’ he continues, pulling a gun from the inside pocket of his overcoat.
‘“Don’t be a fool, Jack. The police won’t buy your story. But I can help you …”’
Vince pulls the trigger. I know the routine now: grab the corner of the desk, clutch chest with other hand, squeeze blood capsule, fall to knees, open mouth slightly as if to speak, glazed look, fall on my side, back to the audience (so they don’t see me breathing), and remember what Jeremy said: ‘Don’t overact, darling – remember, less is more.’
But hang on, where’s the bang? The trigger clicks again. Nothing. Vince shoots me one of his customary, boggle-eyed, Frank-Spencer looks. I half expect him to twitch his shoulders and utter an ‘Hmm, Betty.’
No good relying on him to get us out of this. He spouts his lines verbatim, but as I discovered in Miranda, throw the unexpected at him, and he clams up.
A mega-dose of adrenaline rushes around my body, and I find myself backing away, ad-libbing like mad.
‘You won’t get away with this, you know. No, you won’t. No, siree! The police will be here soon. There’s no way out – unless you’d care to try the window. But the windows are double-glazed, so you won’t be able to break them … even with a chair… nope … no way …’
My back is now pressed against the ‘lift’ door, blood trickling through my fingers onto my shirt, for no apparent reason. Vince is rooted to the spot, doubtless petrified of what I may say or do next. There’s only one thing for it …
In a last-ditch attempt to rescue the situation, I feign prising the door open and fall in backwards, as if into the lift shaft (a black masking curtain). I then spin around once (less is more), crying ‘Aaaaaaaaaaah!’
Abi looks at me flabbergasted from prompt corner, as I snatch one of the cast-iron stage weights and drop it to the floor with a thud, signifying my sticky end.
A good bit of improv, I think, until it dawns on me horribly as the plot unravels, that all references to the shooting (of which there are many) have now to be changed on the hoof, and the two local am-dram enthusiasts, cast in the non-speaking roles of ambulance men, don’t get to come on stage at all.
* * *
Week Six: Another Op’nin’, Another Wig
Strike a match within three feet of my head, and I will combust. Yet despite the half can of hairspray and ton of kirby grips, my mangy hairpiece keeps falling off.
‘Could we do away with the hairpiece altogether, Babs?’ I beg, as she spears my head again.
‘You’re supposed to be a nineteen-year-old virgin bride, Emily, and without it …’ she says, casting a critical eye over me, ‘well, I’m afraid there’s no nice way of putting this, you – you look more like the bride’s mother.’
‘Well, what about my Miranda wig?’
Judging by Babs’s reaction, you’d think I had just suggested wearing my birthday suit and a pair of Doc Martens.
‘I beg your pardon? Did you say your Miranda wig?’
I nod, smiling weakly.
‘You can’t possibly wear that wig! Our regulars would recognise you right away from Miranda. No, you have to look completely different. There!’ she says, standing back and studying my reflection. ‘As long as you don’t move your head around too much, it’ll stay put, and on matinée days you’ll have to keep it on in between shows.’
It was bound to happen sooner or later – and tonight it does …
‘“Oh, Archie, you do love me, don’t you?”’
‘“Of course I do, Shirl. You’re the only girl for me.”’
‘“Oh, Archie!”’
‘“Oh, Shirl!”’
Archie takes me in his arms and spins me around. As I come in to land, I notice a blonde, ferret-like thing sitting on his shoulder.
‘“I can’t – wait – until – we’re – married, darling,”’ I squeak. I know I have another line, but my concentration is broken. Unaware, Archie/Vince looks at me intently through his Coke-bottle spectacles, eyes hugely magnified, drops of perspiration glistening in the furrows of his terrified brow. I can’t think what to say. Remember what they drummed into us at drama school? If your concentration goes, stop and momentarily focus your attention on something very familiar to you, and this will jog your memory …
‘Oscar Charlie, got a pick-up from Station Road …’
We look at one another gormlessly.
‘Oscar Charlie, are you in the vicinity?’
I bite down hard on my lip, fighting a laugh. The Branworth taxi service is mysteriously filtering through the speakers! I ad-lib my way to the end of the scene, but try as I might to retain a sense of professionalism and carry on regardless, my dialogue is expelled in short, sharp bursts, like machine gun fire. The curtains come in, and we all fall about the floor like naughty school kids; the first of many bouts of ‘corpsing’, as it’s called.
* * *
Week Seven: Salad Days
No part to learn, no technical responsibilities, just a million props to find, including four of those old-type mobile hairdryers; you know, the ones on castors, with giant hoods?
Have been into almost every hairdresser in Branworth. They are all very trendy places with staff of an average age of twenty-three. With their brightly coloured hair, body piercings, tattoos, funky clothes, and waif-like figures, I feel about ninety-five next to them.
‘Do you have any old hairdryers I could borrow for a play?’ I yell over blaring rap music. ‘You know the old-fashioned type with a hood … and wheels … no?’
My request is usually met with blank looks or mild amusement. I chicken out from asking them to display our poster and flyers. I get the feeling that neither they nor their cool clientele are likely to want to spend their Saturday night watching Timothy and Jane dancing and singing ‘Oh, Look At Me!’, accompanied by Minnie, the magic piano.
Footsore and hairdryerless, I start to wend my way back to the theatre, wondering if it may be at all possible to adapt the whole thing to the present day. Problem is, we’re back in that frightfully nice world where gay means happy, and people go to marvellous parties and drink lashings of beer, and say things like gosh and he’s a thoroughly decent chap.
I’m ravenous, and an illuminated Fish ’n’ Chips sign lures me up a little side street. As I’m waiting in the queue deciding whether or not to have mushy peas, reflected in the mirror, I spy a board outside the pebbledash house opposite …
HAIR BY MADGE
SHAMPOO & SET HALF-PRICE
FOR PENSIONERS WEDNESDAYS
Now that looks just the kind of place …
‘Yes, love?’ says the lady behind the counter, fish slice at the ready.
‘Sorry, gotta go,’ I say, flying out of the door. Forget jumbo sausages and mushy peas, there’s more pressing business at hand.
* * *
‘If you can manage to get them downstairs, then you’re welcome to borrow them,’ says Madge, opening the stock room door. ‘Can I leave you to it?’ she says, consulting her watch. ‘My lady’s colour should have come off five minutes ago.’
‘Sure, thank you, and here’s the poster, and oh, I’ll drop off the tickets for Thursday night’s show tomorrow morning.’
Isn’t life weird? Not so long ago, I was pushing a trolley through a metal tube, and now here I am, proudly propelling a dusty old hairdryer with wonky wheels through a shopping precinct. Oh, the glamour!
* * *
Week Eight: Round & Round The Rectory (aka Another Cringeworthy Farce)
‘No, no, no, Emily! You pop up from behind the sofa after the telephone rings, not before,’ booms Jeremy’s voice from the darkness of the dress circle. ‘Now let’s go back to the top of the scene from the bishop’s entrance.’
In an ideal world we would have rehearsed this for three weeks, ensuring that the slick co-ordination of lines and moves is imprinted on the brain. But in this drama production line, you’ve barely time to erase the previous character and plot from your memory before you’re twenty years younger than last night, and are speaking in a West Country accent as opposed to ‘Received Pronunciation’ (or ‘RP’, as it is called in Thespian Land). The art of ad-libbing is a must here, to be pulled out of the hat whenever the playwright’s words elude you.
So, to the play itself: vicar, vicar’s wife, bishop, gardener, and ditsy maid (typecasting?). Lots of diving under beds, popping in and out of cupboards and toe-curling double-entendres like, ‘Ooh, put that away before somebody else sees it!’
No unruly wig this week, thank God, just a maid’s cap and an Eliza-Doolittle accent.
‘“Good evening, bishop. May I take your mitre?”’
‘“Thank you, Edith. Is the vicar at home?”’
‘“Yes, your ’oliness. He’s in the library and is expecting you.”’
BISHOP EXITS UPSTAGE RIGHT.
‘“Edith! Edith!”’ (FROM OFFSTAGE.)
‘“Lawks, that’s Bill, the gardener!”’
I bob down behind the sofa.
Silence.
‘Hold it! Emily! Emily!’ calls Jeremy tersely.
‘Yes?’ I say, peering dubiously over the top.
‘Is there a problem?’
I stand up, shielding my eyes from the glaring lights. ‘No. You told me not to appear until the telephone rings.’
‘That’s right, but Richard’s cue for the telephone ring is your line, “He must have seen me come back from town”, is it not?’
‘Sorry, I … I was concentrating on when to appear and clean forgot my line. Sorry,’ I mumble sheepishly.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s go back to the top of the scene once more, thank you!’
Last night I dreamed I was naked on stage, it was my turn to speak, and I had absolutely no idea what play I was in. I will never pull this together by tomorrow night. There is nothing else for it: forget all that terribly useful stuff Portia drummed into us about Stanislavski. There simply isn’t time to explore the inner self. The only technique I’m interested in is survival, and if that means strategically placing bits of the script under the bed, behind the sofa and in the cupboard, then so be it.
HOW TO SURVIVE WEEKLY REP
by
Emily Forsyth
This actors’ manual is to be my project whilst waiting for my next job. The headings so far are:
Chapter 1
Emergency Stage Evacuation
(procedures to be followed when you have absolutely no idea what your next line is)
Chapter 2
Violent Convulsions (aka ‘corpsing’)
Chapter 3
How to Survive Farce
(after not enough rehearsal and avoid having a nervous breakdown)
I will have to amend chapter three, as the procedures are not watertight, as I discovered tonight – to my cost …
Act Two, and I am within touching distance of the finish line. A couple of pages of dialogue, in which to catch my breath after my leap over the back of the sofa, swiftly followed by energetic dive into the cupboard, to avoid being found by the vicar and his young (ahem) wife. Vince is playing the role of Reverend Pritchard and Margo, Mrs P.
So here I am, crouched down in my usual spot, having a quick slurp of my water and a sneaky look at my script, in preparation for my final scene. My ears prick up as I hear Margo deliver my cue line – two pages early.
Before I have time to shift my brain into gear, the cupboard door is flung open and I am revealed, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. In one hand I am clutching my script, and a bottle of Evian in the other; but worse than this, my skirt is hitched up over my knees and my nasty pop-sock secret is out. I rise slowly, staring into the black void, frantically scanning my memory for my line – nothing. My improvisation skills too let me down, as I find myself saying, ‘I’ll just pop upstairs ma’am and see if her ladyship requires anything.’
‘Her – ladyship?’ enquires Margo, eyes wide, a slight tremor in her voice.
‘Yes, her ladyship, your mother … who has been upstairs … bedridden these ten years since,’ I reply, tripping up the stairs. ‘God love ’er.’
‘But we require you to pour the tea,’ says Margo firmly, grabbing the hem of my skirt through the spindles. ‘Nowww.’
‘Begging your par-don, ma’am,’ I continue, wrenching myself free, ‘but I shan’t be a moment.’ And I disappear out of sight, onto ‘the landing’.
‘Pssst! Abi!’ I hiss, waving my arms in the direction of prompt corner.
Abi looks up, removes her cans and says in a loud whisper, ‘What are you doing up there? Get back on stage.’
‘What’s my line?’ I mouth exaggeratedly.
‘What?’
‘What’s – my – line?’
‘How should I know?’ she replies, frantically flicking through her script. ‘You’re in a different play to the rest of us.’
Part of me is tempted to climb down the backstage scaffolding and retreat to my dressing room, leaving my fellow actors to it. After all, this is Margo’s fault for skipping two pages of dialogue in the first place. But then Portia’s words ring out in my head: ‘Acting is all about teamwork and being a supportive company member.’
With this in mind, I come to Vince and Margo’s rescue by hysterically screaming an improvised exit line: ‘Lawks! Sir, Madam, come upstairs right away! Her ladyship is … DEAD!’
They scuttle upstairs and we huddle together on the tiny ‘landing’ until Abi has no alternative but to bring the curtain down.
* * *
I emerge from the stage door and thread my way through the hordes of eager autograph hunters waiting for Margo. Someone taps me gently on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me, please will you sign our programme?’
I turn forty-five degrees and promptly burst into tears, as Wendy, Céline, Faye, and Rachel, arms outstretched, shroud me in a group hug.
‘Hey, don’t cry,’ says Wendy, wiping my cheeks with her thumb. ‘It was supposed to be a nice surprise.’
‘Oh, it is, believe me,’ I blub, my Poundland mascara smudging the collar of Céline’s white Chanel blazer. ‘It’s just the relief of seeing your familiar faces. It’s all been too Mr Bean for words. I’ve aged about twenty years in the last few weeks.’
‘Rubbish. You have lost weight, though,’ says Wendy, laying a gentle hand on my arm.
‘You were so hilarious as the maid,’ chips in Céline. (She has this charming way of emphasising the ‘h’ of English words.)
I flinch. ‘I never believed those people who said the stress some actors experience during performance is the equivalent of a small car crash – until tonight. Tonight, let me tell you, I felt like I was in a multiple pile-up on the M25. Anyway, it’s over and you’re here. Time to celebrate,’ I say, slotting my arms through theirs. ‘Let me buy us all a drink. I’m afraid there are no decent wine bars in this town, just The Lobster Pot. Their house white isn’t bad though.’
‘I know a place overlooking the sea that stays open all night, where we can drink champagne from crystal flutes, and eat smoked salmon by candlelight,’ says Wendy.
I look at her, puzzled.
‘Ta-raa!’ She beams as she produces a cool box from behind her back. ‘Come on. We reserved a bench on the prom.’
* * *
‘Ahem! I’d like to propose a toast,’ I announce, rising unsteadily to my sandy feet, the bubbles in my glass fizzing. ‘Be we in Branworth or Bermuda, may our friendship last for ever!’
Overcome with emotion, exhaustion, and alcohol, I burst into tears again.
‘I know we don’t see one another much these days, but please don’t ever think I’ve forgotten you. The last few months have changed me, and have made me truly appreciate having old friends like you in my life.’
‘Less of the old, eh?’ says Wendy, placing her arm around me. ‘But you’re happy you made the move, aren’t you?’
‘Sure. It’s not easy at times, scary even, but I’m learning that sometimes throwing yourself into unfamiliar situations can lead you somewhere unexpected, somewhere you never thought of going.’
‘Like?’ asks Rachel.
‘Some place where you learn surprising new things about yourself, and find yourself opening up to new challenges.’
‘Like?’ repeats Rachel.
‘Like, I can rustle up a mean pasta sauce now, I can speak a bit of Italian, and I can make a palm tree out of balsa wood, should you ever need one for your next Hawaiian fancy dress party.’
‘And any Daniel Craigs or George Clooneys we should know about?’ asks Wendy, refilling our glasses, a cheeky glint in her eye.
‘Nope. I wouldn’t go out with an actor anyway.’
‘Okay. Any Gino D’Acampos then?’
I look at them nonplussed.
‘Knew it!’ she squeals, throwing her hand up in the air and spilling her champagne.
‘Don’t get excited. He’s just a friend,’ I say defensively. ‘We haven’t exchanged phone numbers or … anything. He teaches me Italian, that’s all. Besides, I’m not the girl I was. I actually like being on my own and don’t need a man in my life. Now, enough of me. What about you and Randy, the Action Man?’
‘Dating disaster.’
‘Oh, why can’t love be like in the movies?’ says Céline longingly. ‘You don’t know just how lucky you are, Rachel – to have met and married the man of your dreams so young.’
‘Hah! He’s no romantic Mr Darcy or Heathcliff,’ she replies, ‘but he’s my best friend. I don’t know how I’d have got through the last few years without him. I’ve only ever had one boyfriend though, and from time to time I do wonder how life would have panned out if I hadn’t settled down so early on.’
‘No point wondering what if,’ says Wendy. ‘The way to happiness isn’t necessarily about breaking all ties and travelling thousands of miles to Bali or India on some self-discovery pilgrimage, like in Eat, Pray, Love. The person sitting next to you at home may well be holding the key. I think what I’m trying to say, is that the grass isn’t always greener.’
‘Yeah. When we are young, we assume that there will be plenty of people out there in this big, wide world with whom we’ll connect – and I mean truly connect,’ says Faye, opening another bottle. ‘But we ladies who – for want of a better phrase, have been round the block a few times – no, let me finish – we can tell you that it doesn’t happen very often – and in some cases, never.’
‘True,’ says Wendy wistfully.
‘We’re so busy proving to the world how capable and independent we are, that we can overlook the very thing that could bring us lasting happiness,’ continues Faye.
‘But perhaps we all expect too much from life,’ says Céline. ‘La vie est compliquée.’
‘If life were easy it would be boring and we wouldn’t grow and develop,’ I chip in.
‘Anyway, girls,’ says Rachel, excitement bubbling over in her voice. ‘I wanted to wait until we were all together to share my news.’
We look at one another, not daring to hope.
Having been given a thirty per cent chance of conceiving after her breast cancer treatment, we are careful to avoid baby talk in Rachel’s company.
It’s one thing being childless because, like me, you never met the right man (call me old-fashioned, but I only wanted a baby if it came complete with a hands-on dad), but to have found your Mr Right early on, for you both to want a family, to have so much to offer a child, and then because of some cruel twist of fate, to be denied that life-enhancing opportunity, seems to me to be so unfair.
Drawing a deep breath, she looks at us all in turn, sparkly-eyed.
‘What?’ says Wendy. ‘Spit it out!’
‘Dave and I are adopting a baby girl from the orphanage in India!’
There’s a gobsmacked silence while the news sinks in, then we all start whooping and punching the air, doing a kind of demented tribal dance in the sand, which attracts some worried looks from loved-up couples out for a romantic seaside stroll.
Life sometimes has a funny way of working out, doesn’t it? I’m learning that while you must be determined, you can want something too much, which can make you frustrated and cross when you don’t get it, which in turn, sends out the wrong message. If you loosen your grip but maintain a positive focus, the thing you want will come and find you eventually; maybe not exactly in the way you imagined, but it will find you nonetheless.
Does all this make sense? Too much champagne has a tendency to bring out my philosophical side, or are these just the hare-brained ramblings of an inebriated woman?
I look up at the sky and think of that wee girl, some four thousand miles away in Delhi, totally unaware of how much her life is about to change.
Orion and The Bear are shining brightly tonight. I wonder if Francesco is gazing at them too.