Out in cyber-space, I can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. In the real world, I’m about as manoeuvrable as a dog turd and as conspicuous as a wart on a supermodel. Teenagers are supposed to have this fixation that everyone’s staring at them; with me it’s actually true. When I wheel into that rehearsal tomorrow, I know for a fact that all eyes will be on me.
The Virgin
We called it market day. Every second Saturday of the summer term, they bussed the entire upper fifth to the boys’ school on the other side of Tewkesbury. After a couple of juicy scandals (one of which made it to page six of the Daily Telegraph ) the headmaster of St Dominic’s decided that the boys’ energies might be better channelled if they were allowed strictly limited access to suitable members of the opposite sex – a bit like a mass conjugal visit for the prisoners on death row.
At least that’s what it felt like. For the rest of the year we were supposed be perfect young ladies, but for a couple of Saturdays in June we were required to dress up like high-class hookers and snog the boys of St Dominic’s into the paths of true righteousness. Not that everyone felt the same as I did. I remember the excited babble as we swarmed onto the coach (“Cassie isn’t wearing any knickers,”
“Isabel Barrett thinks you can get pregnant from a blow job!”), the overpowering smell of Chanel N°5 and the screams of delight at the first sight of the rugby posts when we turned into the long drive that led up to Dracula’s castle.
Although these so-called Fraternization Nights lasted an agonizing three and a half hours, the non-alcoholic punch (rumour had it that a group of Dominican boffins were manufacturing their own ecstasy), the obligatory dose of whingeing Britpop from the school band and the dismal attempts at urbane witticism (“Can I park my Porsche in your garage?”) were only a prelude to the all-important last five minutes.
The slow dance, or ‘gentlemen’s abuse me’ as we called it, was a frenetic free-for-all in which the light show was momentarily shackled and our soft-hearted jailers turned a blind eye to the scenes of desperate debauchery on the dance floor. There beneath an impressive memorial to the old boys who gave their lives in two world wars, I prepared myself for an assault of a different kind: a tongue in my mouth, a hand on my bum, perhaps a clumsy attempt to unfasten my bra strap or, worse still, inky fingers trying to force their way into my pragmatically skintight jeans. I still wince whenever I hear Celine Dion.
But the slow dance wasn’t the worst part. I soon worked out that a casual allusion to The Mill on the Floss was enough to confuse even the most amorous schoolboy, and an adolescent queasiness about the menstrual cycle ensured that the phrase ‘Sorry, I’ve just come on’ was a failsafe deterrent for inky fingers. And besides, Mummy loved to hear about the boys I’d snogged. She was always saying how much my letters cheered her up during the bad times. No, the worst part for me was right at the start of the evening when, one by one, we had to parade through a corridor full of expectant Dominicans whilst they checked out our cleavages, clapped and whistled like the crowd at Twickenham and shouted lewd comments. I hated it; their eyes like lasers, burning into all my most private places.
So how does he cope? Michael, I mean. I saw the way everyone looked at him when we walked back to college tonight. The poor guy must get it the whole time. It would kill me, but he seems to take it all in his stride (oops!).
That’s why I’m dreading the rehearsal tomorrow. I’m not cut out to be an actress. No wonder I can’t sleep. What’s that bit in Hamlet, “perchance to dream”? Tell me about it! Philip has promised to be gentle with me, but I’ve been having nightmares ever since he said we’d be spending the first part of the evening playing theatre games.
The things I do for Mummy!
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
5
The Actors are Come Hither
The Actor
Philip Sidney looks a prize prat in his black polo-neck sweater. I’m amazed he hasn’t got a fold-up chair with ‘Director’ on the back.
“I don’t want to do a read-through. I think we’ll leave that sort of thing to Crewe Rep, don’t you?” (Much amusement.)
It’s a speech I’ve heard a million times before. It usually continues along the lines of: he’s not going to do any blocking (because he’s not directing traffic), followed by a solemn promise to ‘let things grow organically’. Which is code for ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue.’
“What I want to do first, and what I think will actually be a lot more useful, is to consider the word ‘prison’.” A murmur of approval goes round the rehearsal room. “Denmark is a prison, yeah? OK, let’s all get into a circle on the floor – apart from you, of course, Michael.”
“Thanks, Philip.”
“I want you to sit in the middle of the circle and be my sounding board. Every time anyone says anything, echo it back to them.”
This is not by any means the foul parody it seems. In five years’ time it’s quite conceivable that Philip Sidney will be dispersing similar pearls of wisdom to middle-aged thespians at one of our major subsidized theatres; each one of them eager not to appear set in their ways in the face of such youthful brilliance.
“Buggery.” (“Buggery.”)
“Burglary.” (“Burglary.”)
“Shadows.” (“Shadows.”)
(Cliff and the…?)
“Monotony.” (“Monotony.”)
The Virgin
God, this is horrid. When I first told him that Michael had agreed to play Hamlet, Philip said he’d ‘love me for ever’, but tonight he’s treating me like something he’d wipe off his riding boots. How come he didn’t make that obese slap-per from St Hilda’s improvise a porn movie? And what’s it got to do with Hamlet anyway? No wonder I want to lose myself in a family pack of fun-sized Mars bars.
“Come on, Anna,” he barks. “You’re supposed to be a Serbian whore, not a refugee from The Sound of Music.”
“I just don’t see the point, that’s all.”
“Oh, so you don’t see the relevance of the Balkans conflict to sixteenth-century politics, then?” He rolls his eyes at the girl playing Guildenstern, who obviously can’t believe my ignorance.
At least Piers sticks up for me. “Why am I taking my quadriplegic cousin to a prostitute anyway? It doesn’t make sense.”
Philip mimes banging his head against the wall. “Jesus, Piers, haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Michael’s actually quite a funny guy. He told me just now that his mum thinks he’d make a brilliant prime minister. And he didn’t even crack a smile. I expect he’s enjoying getting out for a change. When you look like he does, you probably get used to the odd funny look. For all I know, he could be having the time of his life.
The Quadriplegic
The last sixty-eight minutes have been at least a trillion times more demeaning than the time I ‘made a mess’ in Santa’s grotto. At most non-spacko social events they park me in a quiet corner and have the decency to whisper about me behind my back; here in the rehearsal room, Philip celebrates my spackocity at every turn.
“It’s staring you right in the face, Piers. His whole body is a prison. I mean, how do you think that makes him feel?”
“Pretty rank, I should imagine.”
“So, now do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Oh, yah…abso-bloody-lutely,” says Piers, grudgingly.
After his triumph in The Elephant Man he’s still a bit peeved not to be playing the quadriplegic Hamlet himself.
Most of the time, people regard me as the opposite of a chimney sweep at a wedding. What I represent to ABs (crip jargon for able-bodied) is a nasty reminder of their fragile mortality. Isn’t that why you reach for 50p every time you see an old lady with a collection tin outside Sains-bury’s; as your insurance policy against getting cancer, or ending up lumbered with a kid like me? I might start hiring myself out to undertakers.
Philip has made it his mission in life to humiliate Anna. He orders her a
round like she’s a Victorian scullery maid (for all I know, they still have one in the Sidney residence) and every one of his improvisations seems to revolve around her posing as a horny schoolgirl or a Romanian prostitute on the run from her (wheelchair-bound) pimp.
Anna does her best to laugh it off, but I can see from the way she looks at him that she’s hating every minute of it. Take it from me, she is not cut out for a life in the sex industry.
“OK, people,” says Philip, “for the last couple of hours I want to do some work with masks. We’ve done some really useful exercises around the concept of prison…” (Yeah, right.) “…and now I want to explore the idea that things are not always what they seem. “Seems, madam?… “I know not seems.”””
Talk about hoist with my own fucking petard. I only agreed to do Hamlet so I could spend a bit of time with a ‘real girl’ and torture my corpulent carer, but Anna probably thinks I’m an evil sex pest, and the bald bastard at the back seems to be loving every minute of it. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve seen De Niro smile since we got here.
“Now don’t forget,” says Philip, “show some respect for the mask.”
The Actor
Strangely enough, I’ve been through all this with an illustrious knight of the theatre. I was giving my Athenian soldier in his ‘well paced but ultimately parochial’ production of The Suppliant Women.
“OK, people, in a little while some sort of sounds might begin to emerge – grunts, perhaps.”
He said that when we first pulled on our masks we would be quite unable to speak, but that gradually, as we grew into them, we might achieve maturity, and eventually, perhaps, the gift of speech. He sat in front of us like a Renaissance prince or the non-schizophrenic Kray brother, the merest hint of a self-satisfied smile playing about his lips as before his very eyes we (remarkably) progressed from childlike mutes, through grunting Neanderthals, into fully fledged masked orators – just as he said we should. Never mind medical students, theatre directors could keep the sperm banks overflowing well into the twenty-first century.
I really shouldn’t have worried about this. As the last actor is unmasked and Michael manoeuvres his wheelchair to the periphery of the circle, I know with thrilling certainty that Sidney’s Hamlet is destined to be the crassest, most ill-conceived and all-round embarrassing production since It’s a Royal Knockout. Coupled with a leading man who is both out of his depth and ludicrously miscast (think John Inman and King Lear ), and you will understand why I shall shortly be celebrating with my favourite tipple.
Philip Sidney is perplexingly upbeat. “Thank you, people, that was fucking excellent. I just want to say that if we carry on like this, we’re going to have a truly mind-blowing show on our hands. OK, before we all adjourn to the White Horse, I think we should end with a game of tag. Perhaps you’d like to join us, Timothy. I don’t normally let anyone sit in on my rehearsals, so we’d all appreciate it if you’d deign to let your hair down – what there is of it—and join us.”
(Smart-arsed little bugger.) “Thank you, Philip, but getting the big picture is really most illuminating.”
“Whatever happened to your inner child, Tim?”
“My outer parents bludgeoned him to death with the gas bill.”
The Quadriplegic
Philip and Piers hump me down the stairs outside the rehearsal hall.
“Where’s Florence Nightingale?” says Piers. “I thought this was his job.”
“Gone for a piss,” I tell him.
“He’s probably got his head stuck down the bog looking for his career,” says Philip.
Piers puffs out his cheeks and does a hopelessly camp imitation of my carer. “‘I must speak to my agent.’”
“Yeah, travel agent,” says Philip, “book himself a nice Saga holiday.” He glances at his Rolex. “Sure you’re not going to join us, Michael?”
“Pubs aren’t really my thing.”
He doesn’t exactly bust a gut trying to talk me out of it. “Take care of yourself, then. That was a bloody excellent rehearsal, by the way. Told you he was inspired casting, didn’t I, Piers?”
Piers nods half-heartedly.
I’m always getting blockages of one kind or another (many of them life-threatening), so don’t go thinking it means anything, but as soon as I see Anna walking towards us, head bowed like Mum at a prayer meeting, I get this lump in my throat.
“Look who it is,” says Philip, putting on a truly awful working-class accent. “How much for a Lewinsky, doll?”
“Shut up, you idiot,” says Piers. “Can’t you see the poor girl’s upset?”
“Well, you’d know all about drama queens, wouldn’t you, Piers?”
“Piss off, Phil,” says Piers good-humouredly. “Don’t worry about him, Anna. He always treats his actors abominably. You should have seen what he put me through in Elephant.”
“I can’t stand divas,” says Philip, prodding his nose stud with his index finger. “They do my head in. Now can we just get to the pub, please? Some of us have actually been working tonight.”
“Yes, come on, Anna,” says Piers. “I haven’t finished telling you about the Scottish guy I met in Bangkok.”
Anna takes a pink paper tissue from her sleeve. “I’d really like that, Piers, but…some other time perhaps, if that’s OK with you.”
“Oh yah, absolutely. We’ve got four more weeks of rehearsal, don’t forget.”
“Please yourself,” shrugs Philip. “You might use the time to think about those hang-ups of yours. No one likes a woman who bursts into tears every time you mention oral sex. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He disappears into the night, Piers skipping along behind. From the look on Anna’s face, I’d hazard a guess that she’s not using the time to consider her hang-ups—whatever they might be. But I wouldn’t mind betting that, like me, she’s just realized that four more weeks of Hamlet rehearsals are more than flesh and blood can bear. “What’s the matter, Anna, are you OK?”
Think back over your life and count up the number of times you’ve seen a grown man cry. I’m not talking about on telly – soap actors have it written into their contracts and doesn’t the BBC just love a good old-fashioned natural disaster? No, think real life, as we like to call it, and add them up. So what did you make it – four, five? But I’ll tell you what; I bet you can remember them all. I’ll never forget Dad’s pathetic display when the gutless bastard told me he was leaving: “I’ll still be here for you, I promise,”’ he said, his face creasing up like Mother Teresa’s. “Chelmsford’s only an hour and twenty-five in the Renault.”
Now try the same thing with women. Can’t do it, can you? It’s like asking Mick Jagger how many models he’s fucked. Some people say it’s because women are more advanced than men, more in touch with their feelings.
Personally, I think that’s taking things a bit far. I reckon I’ve got as much right to cry my eyes out as the next fashion victim, but, even if my tear ducts were fully functional, you wouldn’t catch me turning on the waterworks. “Please…please, Anna, don’t cry.”
So how come I find the sight of Anna dabbing at her panda eyes so upsetting? How come I’d give my right arm (and throw in a couple of hardly used legs for good measure) just to change places with her soggy Kleenex? I’m completely paralysed from the neck down, and yet those tiny beads of moisture racing across her cheeks give me the feeling that someone’s slowly twisting a knife in my guts. “Come on, Anna. You mustn’t let him get to you.”
“Its nothing. I’m…fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Why does he treat me like that?” Her voice is so brimming with vitriol that for some reason I feel like turning somersaults. “Am I really so awful?”
“Of course you’re not. If you ask me, you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing.”
She smiles and rubs my shoulder. “Oh, Michael, you’re so sweet.”
Trust me, it’s not the sort of thing that any bloke
in a wheelchair wants to hear. As terms of endearment go it’s only marginally preferable to ‘You’re really repulsive and I can’t stand to be in the same room as you’.
“Yeah, cheers, thanks for that.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
De Niro bounces down the steps, fiddling with his flies and grinning inanely. “Hello, you two. Enjoy the rehearsal?”
“Not really,” says Anna.
“I don’t blame you, my dear. If I was playing Ophelia—and with young Sidney at the helm, that’s not as outlandish as it might sound – I’d be less than enchanted to spend my first rehearsal masquerading as a child prostitute. And as for you, Mike,” he adds with a sly wink, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I just wish I knew what Philip wanted,” says Anna. “I can’t think why he cast me in the first place.” (I’ve got a pretty good idea.) “That’s not true, actually, I do know why. He told me the other day.”
“Oh, yes,” says De Niro, smacking his lips like a tabloid journalist. “What did he say?”
The Opposite Bastard Page 5