Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  She looks at me, uncertain, but I have one last card to draw.

  ‘Look,’ I say, elaborately waving my own pass and at the same time gesturing towards the middle of the row. ‘You’ll have to agree. It is a much better seat.’

  I allow her a moment to absorb the fact that what I am offering is entirely in her favour. Naturally, she doesn’t want to appear too obliging, but I can tell that my work is done. Moments later she has agreed to my proposition, has seated herself and has spotted someone with whom she can jibber.

  The five-minute bell sounds. An announcement urges everyone inside, and the auditorium quickly fills.

  An old lady claims the seat next to me.

  ‘That is a lovely outfit you have on,’ she says to me once she has settled herself, a task that involves gnashing down a half-packet of Silvermints and reaching for a needle and wool.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ I say. ‘It’s getting its first outing this evening. What are you knitting, may I ask?’

  ‘Mittens. I have a feeling we’re in for a long winter. I knitted an entire scarf during an exhausting performance of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? a while back.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I caught that one as well. Exhausting is the word.’

  Portly-man-with-chain marches out on stage and continues from where he left off outside on the red carpet, welcoming everyone, complimenting everyone, booming his voice through the auditorium until he is certain everyone is aware of his involvement in the historic evening. Camilla the Hun walks out and welcomes everyone and in her no-nonsense way points out the emergency exits and tells everyone to turn off their phones. Enjoy the performance, she says and exits stage left.

  The lights dim. The audience settles down. An anticipatory hush descends.

  ‘This is momentous, isn’t it?’ croaks the old lady beside me. She clutches my arm as the curtain rises.

  The set looks great. It is cramped and lively and not nearly as sordid as Blanche herself would lead us to believe. A jazz piano trickles through the midnight-blue lighting. I sit back, make myself comfortable.

  It starts off reasonably satisfactorily. The early scenes, in particular. Stanley is a quietly menacing presence. Stella is perfectly adequate as the lame duck. Mitch I am impressed with. He is a winning blend of awkward charm and fatalistic resilience. Blanche, though. I’m not sure that she is hitting her notes. The accent is a little forced. She seems to think her sole purpose on stage is to out-spar Stanley with witticisms. And the way she keeps throwing out her right hand every time she delivers one of these witticisms is very distracting. I make little effort to suppress my boredom, while those seated beside me glare my way.

  The interval arrives after scene six. Everyone hustles their way out into the lobby to collect their pre-ordered drinks, scoff more nibbles. I bide my time and wait until the auditorium has emptied. For some reason the old lady beside me doesn’t seem in any hurry out of there. She is busy with her knitting, her hands going good-oh. I leave her to it, vacate my seat and walk into the lobby. I can see mother and Peter Porter standing outside, on the steps. Fleming is with them. The three of them in thick confab. Mother and Peter Porter no doubt wondering when I’m due onstage. Fleming doing his best to let on he is none the wiser. I jostle my way to the busy bar and order the largest glass of red wine Emily will give me. Keep pouring, Emily, I tell her. And she is kind enough to do precisely as she is bid.

  Then I see him. At the end of the bar. Smiling at well-wishers, pressing hands. Glass of wine to hand, I jostle over to him.

  ‘Hello, Stephen,’ I say loud enough to ensure I get his attention. ‘Are you enjoying the show?’

  ‘Oh, hello . . . eh . . .’

  ‘Eh . . . what does that mean? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying it? Your own show!’

  ‘Eh . . .’

  ‘You’re probably kicking yourself for not casting yours truly. So?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you kicking yourself for not casting me? How many times have you kicked yourself? Ten? Twenty? Go on, tell me. I won’t say anything.’

  ‘I have to get back, Laura.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me, Stephen. I’m just trying to yank your chain. Off you go now. Wouldn’t want you missing the second half.’

  *

  My favourite moments have come and gone. Blanche telling Mitch of the fate of her early love. Her talk of the rainy New Orleans afternoons. Of the searchlight that had been turned on the world going out. For that moment I could feel the tears rolling down my face, as the old woman beside me let go of her needles and held my shaking hands.

  And at last. We have arrived at the pivotal scene. Stanley is togged out in his special-occasion pyjamas. Any moment now he is going to pounce. He is going to back Blanche into the bedroom. And suspecting the worst, Blanche is going to reach for a broken bottle to ward him off.

  An anticipatory silence envelops the auditorium.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ I whisper to the old lady beside me and I rise from my end-of-row seat, walk down the aisle and take the left-hand-side stairs up onto the stage.

  I look about me. Mia is standing stage right, a quivering waif of vulnerability and calculation, a broken person who is somehow clinging to the last vestiges. I have to admit that, after the better part of two hours on stage, she finally looks like a genuine Blanche DuBois. ‘Doesn’t she?’ I say out loud, turning to face my audience. I examine some of the faces immediately below me. Mother is in the front row. More or less directly below me, alongside Peter Porter. Practically the best seats in the house. Fleming is there too. And mother’s friends are close by.

  I take in the entire auditorium, and as soon as I do, the various faces start to wheel about me, now in, now out of focus, it’s already difficult to concentrate on any one of them. Tut-tut. The show must go on. I clear my throat and join my hands.

  ‘Hello everyone. I have an announcement to make in relation to this evening’s performance. Unfortunately one of the actresses is unable to carry on and I have been asked to stand in. I will be your Blanche for the final scenes this evening.’

  Billy the Lush has moved slightly out of the wings, Stephen Fallow is there too. I move across to Blanche, who is still gripping the broken bottle. ‘Look at this plastic thing,’ I say, relieving Mia of the bottle prop. ‘This is what you need,’ I say, and I reach inside the pocket of my skirt and remove the knife.

  Mia flinches and backs away from me. A collective gasp issues throughout the auditorium.

  Good. I seem to have everyone’s attention.

  ‘So, tell me, Mia,’ I say, waggling the knife in front of her. ‘Do you know me? Would you like to know me?’

  There is no chance for her to reply. Someone wants to cut into our little get-together. Stephen Fallow. Our director. And not before time.

  ‘What kept you?’ I say, as he joins me onstage.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right. I think this scene calls for a little direction,’ I say. ‘So, then, Mr Director Man. Give me some.’

  ‘What? Give you some what?’

  ‘Listen to you. The hotshot director all the way from Broadway. Come on, then. Let’s have some direction.’

  Now someone else wants to cut into our little get-together. It’s my leading man. And about time too.

  ‘Where were you earlier?’ I say, as he takes to the stage.

  ‘Laura! What are you at?’

  ‘Fleming! You of all people should know the answer to that. Look around you. See the gathered crowd.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean, And? This is my stage, Fleming. This is where I was born to be.’

  ‘What are you doing with the knife, Laura?’

  ‘Fleming, are you listening to a word I’m saying?’

  ‘Same question.’

  ‘Fleming, please. I did not invite you up here for an interrogation.’

  Stephen Fallow is gesturing to Mia to stay calm. In
the wings, Billy the Lush is watching every move, edging his way onstage. The audience looks on, spellbound. Fleming is talking again.

  ‘Will you let me take it? The knife?’

  ‘Tell me about your TV show, Fleming. The one about the American presidents. The one I helped you with.’

  ‘Once Elected.’

  ‘Yes. Once Elected. And all they do is watch television. So what show is loofah-face watching?’

  ‘Laura. I don’t think this is the time . . .’

  ‘Fleming! You are absolutely right. We need to wait for Imelda.’

  ‘What? Who’s Imelda, Laura?’

  ‘Imelda is my friend. My acting friend.’

  ‘What friend? What acting friend?’

  ‘Imelda Ebbing. Imelda J Ebbing. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her, Fleming.’

  He holds out his hands and shakes his head at me. I half-turn to face the auditorium, at the same time jabbing the knife in Fleming’s direction, mock-smiling as I go. ‘Hear that, folks. He’s never heard of Imelda Ebbing.’ I turn back to Fleming.

  ‘Imelda and me go way back. All the way back. We were like that,’ I say, twisting together the middle and index fingers of my spare hand. ‘She’s made it big in London. She’s coming here tonight. As soon as she sees me perform, she’s going to whisk me away.’

  Fleming takes a deep breath. ‘Laura! I don’t think that’s going to . . .’ There is pleading in his voice. Layers and layers of it. Well, why shouldn’t there be? After all, he is my leading man.

  ‘Now where could she be? She said she was going to be in the front row.’

  ‘Where could who be, Laura!’

  ‘I told you. Imelda.’

  ‘Laura! What are you talking about?’

  ‘Daddy knows who she is. He liked Imelda from the very first moment. He said someone with a name like that . . . is going . . . all the way . . .’

  Fleming looks at me, a flicker of something – recognition – passes across his face.

  ‘Laura. I think it’s time to call an end to this.’

  ‘You want to know something else my daddy told me when I was little, Fleming? Life is just a few moments. That’s all. Me? I just wanted a part. To be a part of something. That wasn’t too much to ask for. Was it, Fleming?’

  ‘No, Laura. No, it wasn’t.’

  I look to the wings, to the stagehands that have gathered there, one or two busy talking into mobiles, the others watching my every move. Fleming looks from me to the knife. I clutch it closer to me.

  ‘Laura, please,’ he says, reaching out an arm. ‘Let me have it.’

  He takes a step towards me. I turn away from him, and again I face the auditorium, see mother standing out of her seat, hand to her mouth. And now the dizziness comes on. And Stephen’s expression catches my eye. A mix of mirth and contempt and who-do-you-think-you-are upsetting my opening-night spectacle. Mia, too, is watching me, her gaze flicking from my face to the knife. Go on, her smirking face implores, I dare you.

  I make to pretend-lunge at her and, not-so-steady on my feet, stagger forward. Stephen throws himself between myself and Mia. The audience howls and others rush onstage. I loosen my grip on the knife, let it fall onto the stage floor. Oh my! Is that blood I can see on the blade?

  And everything is dark. And I am outside. Salty air and chill of night. I am standing at the end of the pier. The west wind hushed and not a stir. Someone is talking to me. A gentle voice, familiar and reassuring, so, so easy on the ear. Come, Laura, I hear it say. Stand beside me. I do as I am told. Look out there, Laura. Tell me what you see. I do as I am bid and look out into the black water. Tell me what you see, Laura. And, yes! I can see it now, daddy. So, so clear. Stretching out before me like never before. ‘I can see it!’ I cry out, taking a step over the edge. ‘I can see it I can see it I can see it.’ The star-studded path. All the famous names in glittering letters. I take another step. And another. And another. And I can so easily see the way. No need for assistance, no need for the arms reaching out to me. And I step fearlessly onward, and I hear the collective gasp from the audience, and at last all the walls have dissolved, every single last one of them, and I am walking among stars.

  FINALE

  I remember the first time I was inside a theatre – it was more of an old hall, the one they would restore and call the Story House. The Claddagh Players were putting on a production of The Playboy of the Western World. Daddy had the lead role, and I had begged him to let me tag along. As soon as the performance began I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage. Was instantly transported. And there and then I knew it was where I belonged.

  After the performance daddy took me backstage and I met the other actors. Laura, this is the Widow Quinn, daddy said, affectionately jabbing the woman he had been sparring with all evening. And this is Billy the props man – singlehandedly built the entire set. They were all there, the actors, cracking open cans of beer and popping bottles of fizzy wine. They clinked glasses and toasted each other, proud that they had pulled it off. I felt proud of them too, and I listened to their verdicts on the show, the various performances, what could be done better, their satisfaction at a particular moment or gesture. Good job, beautiful work. The Abbey would be hard pressed to emulate what we just did. Next stop Broadway! I was in thrall to everything that was said, hung off every word.

  And gradually the talk moved away from their own play and on to other plays, plays they would love to put on in the future, plays they had put on in the past, plays they had seen and admired. Did you the see the movie version? someone asked and the conversation then swayed in that direction. Movies they had seen recently and movies they wanted to see, and movies they had seen long ago and wanted to see again. They talked about the stars and who they liked and who they were not so keen on and those they thought were under-appreciated and overrated. Who do you like, Laura? I remember Billy the props man asking me. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I like Lana Turner, I said. Do you now? Billy said, and tell me what have you seen her in? And without a pause for breath I mentioned The Postman Always Rings Twice. Madame X is good too, I said, and I like her in The Bad and the Beautiful. Who else do you like? Greece McLoughlin asked me. Barbara Stanwyck, I said. Especially Double Indemnity and The Lady Eve. Veronica Lake is really good too. And so is kick-his-head-in Jane Greer. And fasten-your-seatbelt Bette Davis. They couldn’t believe the names coming out of me and what I knew about them, and they laughed some more when I threw out a line or two from whatever movie daddy and me had watched that week. Most of all I like Gloria Swanson, I declared, and they all stopped talking and looked my way. Did you know, I asked them, that at the end of a private screening of Sunset Boulevard Barbara Stanwyck knelt down and kissed the hem of Gloria Swanson’s skirt? And in an instant I was Norma Desmond living in a mysterious mansion along with the butler I was once married to. My pet monkey has just died and we are about to bury it when the handsome stranger pulls into my driveway. He’s on the run and needs to hide out from the moneymen he owes big time. You’re Norma Desmond, handsome says when he gets a proper look at me. You used to be big. I’m still big! I howl back at him. It’s the movies that got small. By the time I was finished they were slapping their knees and jabbing each other good-oh and hooting like there was no tomorrow. At which point daddy and me eyed each other and smiled.

  Later at home that night, daddy asked me had I chosen my star name. I knew he was going to ask me and I was ready with my answer. Of course I have, I replied. It’s Imelda. Imelda Ebbing.

  Imelda Ebbing, he repeated after me, rubbing the tip of his chin with his thumb and forefinger. I think I like that. I think I like it a lot.

  *

  And so, against all the odds, I have landed back inside St Jude’s. I’m on the third floor, in a ward with several others. Sharing a room with a woman called Margaret. She keeps getting out of bed and packing her suitcase, every few minutes announces that she is going somewhere. Where are you going, Margaret? the nurses ask her.
Then she unpacks and gets back into bed. The other day she took off without bothering to pack. The nurses said she does it at the same time every year. Like a swallow flying south for winter. Now that the climate is changing they don’t know what she is liable to do.

  Next door to us is Rita. This week, she has been accusing everyone of sprinkling dishwashing powder into her chilli con carne. There’s an aftertaste, she says. A nurse told me it’s the only way to get anti-depressants into her. Angelina Jolie is here too. ‘Hello,’ she said to me when I rocked up. ‘My name isn’t Sharon Fyffe, it’s Angelina Jolie.’ She has started writing her life story. And she wants Helen Mirren to play her in the movie version. Fleming was very interested in this piece of information, wanted to know does she look like Angelina Jolie. No, I told him, she looks like the Bride of Frankenstein.

  And then there is Sandra who is always hogging the radiator. Stole money from her husband’s mother. She won’t say how much or what she did with it. She told me she’s been married for fifty years. Once for twenty-two years. Once for ten years. And three times each for six years. She says her love CV reads very well. And that an acute sense of responsibility leaves her in a state of permanent unrest. I’ve seen her try but she is unable to do anything for herself. They haven’t decided yet precisely what is wrong with me.

  There are three Kitties and a Katie. One of the Kitties is eighty-eight. She is not responsible. On Thursday she saw fireworks for the very first time. You should have seen her face light up. She won’t let us turn on the TV. It affects her asthma. Tomorrow, she’s leaving. In a helicopter. As soon as she transfers the insurance from her car. I’ll miss her but at least I’ll be able to watch Better Call Saul. That’s right. I have started watching television shows. Won’t mother and Fleming be thrilled?

  Any chance I get I go outside, roll a ciggie, light up. Every time, a man hobbles up and stands alongside me. He is tall, gaunt-looking, trying to grow a beard. He holds his arms out in front of him. His hands tremble. Around here he is known as the Thief. He steals anything he can get a hold of. Cigarettes. Flower vases. Pillow slips. The first time he stood beside me I offered him the rollie I had just made. He took it, looked intensely at me and said, ‘You are four great people.’ ‘Only four,’ I said right back to him. We have been smoking together ever since.