Stage Mum

by Lisa Gee

  I had been warned by Russ, and by other mothers, that performing children – like grown-up performers – get post-run blues when their contract’s over. And also that the last night tends to be very traumatic. ‘Oh my God, the sobbing,’ said Pippa, Piers’s mum, who has loads of experience of this sort of thing. ‘This business is one long round of goodbyes. On one show, this poor girl did her last date with her team, and stood outside the theatre sobbing with them for about an hour. Then she got called back in another day, because someone was ill, and had to do the sobbing all over again with another group of children. It’s awful when it finishes, and you just stand there watching your child being horribly upset. And the more children there are in a cast, the worse it is.’ That was something to look forward to, then. I’d better make sure that Dora had plenty to go on to once her run in the show ended. There was the holiday in France with her cousins immediately afterwards, which should postpone the misery. And I knew she’d be happy to have time to hang out with her friends and go back to her dance lessons. What else did we need to plan to keep her buoyant? Or should I let her experience the crash? Was it an emotionally necessary part of the process?

  I devoted a lot of time and attention to worrying about this. Part of me – the stage mother bit – was keen to take Russ and his wife Linda’s advice, which was to get Dora out auditioning for something else as soon as she finished in The Sound of Music. But I wasn’t sure. That would mean buying into a particular kind of lifestyle, not only for her, but for me and Laurie as well. Not all shows are quite as demanding time-wise as The Sound of Music had been. There are, inevitably, more rehearsals when your child’s in the first run, simply because the directors are working everything out as they go along. When they join a show that’s already up and running, the commitment is less. Also, there are very few shows where the children have as much to do as in The Sound of Music. The children who play young Cosette and Eponine in Les Mis, for instance, do their bit and quit the theatre in the interval – even on the days when they’re doing both matinee and evening performances. That means that they can get home to bed at an almost reasonable hour and hardly miss any school. But was it healthy to take that step? Would I then have committed her to spending her childhood either working or auditioning? On the other hand, if I didn’t let her carry on and do more performing, which she loved, had a talent for and appeared to have suffered few, if any, ill-effects from, would I be stifling something in her? Is it either all – a constant round of castings and auditions, the majority of which come to nothing more than the cost of a return trip into the West End and three hours out of our day – or nothing? A life that, after the excitement of The Sound of Music, would feel a bit dowdy and boring? Could there be a happy medium? Could Dora do some performing – might she be satisfied with local am-dram shows? – without all three of our lives having to centre entirely around her schedule? If so, how, when the whole world of performing children felt so all-consuming, so seductive? Had I inadvertently opened a small, but quite dramatic, version of Pandora’s box? I started asking some of the other parents about their children’s agents.

  Although I was more than happy standing at the back of the stalls, on a couple of occasions towards the end of Dora’s run I managed to book day seats in the front row – the ones you have to queue up to buy on the morning of the show and which cost the same as standing tickets. I loved sitting there. It was a completely different experience from being anywhere else in the theatre. You could watch every change in facial expression, hear the whirr of machinery moving the set, and make eye contact with your child and her friends (but only during the curtain call, or they’d get into trouble). You could chat with members of the orchestra. You could see everything, except the actors’ feet and ankles. One day when I was watching from there, I leaned into the orchestra pit to natter with Ros Jones, the children’s musical director, who also plays keyboards in the show and every now and then conducts the orchestra. I asked her if she could spare the time to meet up for coffee and chat about what would be the best tack for me to take with Dora once she’d finished in the show. I liked Ros a lot. She was friendly and fun and seemed down-to-earth, the kind of person who would probably have sensible ideas about what to do with a post-Sound of Music seven-year-old.

  Unlike me, Dora hadn’t thought too much about how she’d spend her time after she’d finished in the show so I tried to keep it positive, focusing on the things she’d be able to do that she couldn’t while she was working. She’d have the chance to ride her shiny new bike, play with her friends, go on holiday, do her SATs and her Grade 1 ballet exam (very exciting! Dora thinks tests and exams are fun and was slightly miffed to discover, when she started Year 3, that she wouldn’t get to do another round of SATs). But she was sad about finishing and cross that we hadn’t said yes to her doing a second run, even though she very sensibly recognised that she was probably getting too big to still be Gretl.

  Towards the end of February, a flurry of friends and relatives descended on the Palladium – which meant I had to source tickets (much easier now the show had been running for a few months and I was on first-name terms with several of the box office staff), arrange to meet people and remember when and where I’d arranged to meet them. This was also the start of the busy time of the year for me, meaning that I needed to refocus so I could devote an appropriate amount of time, energy and attention to my work. I had already lost my librarian training work largely because my head and heart were at the theatre instead of in the library, and I didn’t want to jeopardise any of my other jobs. Then there were tickets for Dora’s last night. None of us mums could work out why that particular show was sold out, when there were tickets available for most other nights. Alan, who manages the box office and had been very helpful, explained: it was because Connie was originally going to finish that night. We told him why we were so desperate for tickets and he promised that just this once, just this once, he would let us reserve day seats. So most of us would get to sit together, which meant we’d be able to exchange glances, share tissues and, as one of the more experienced stage mums said, throw flowers at the children when they took their final bows. ‘Can we really do that?’ I asked, wondering whether I should practise beforehand, and if so, how and where.

  Early in March, Mrs Kendall, Mrs Arin (Dora’s teacher) and eight of her classmates made the excited journey from Harlesden to watch a matinee. I had coffee with Ros the same day, which provided my first opportunity to discuss what I should do with Dora after she’d finished in the show with someone who was in the business and knew her. First, and most important, would be piano lessons. Then, I thought, I would probably let her have an agent – if they would take her, the agency run by Molly-May’s grandmother and aunts at Redroofs, rather than going to Young ’Uns, the Sylvia Young agency, which represented most of the Sound of Music children. I’d made that decision for two reasons. Firstly, I hoped it would help maintain Dora’s friendship with Molly-May. And secondly, the Redroofs agency is very selective about the auditions they send children to, so they don’t do that many. It’s an ethos that recognises acting work as part of the children’s lives, rather than, at this stage, a career. The children with Young ’Uns do have a juvenile career. They are always auditioning, usually working. It is a life choice made by them and their parents, and having got to know so many happy, confident, intelligent, beautiful, kind and down-to-earth children living that life – and several young adults who have graduated from it – it seems like a fine one. That said, I wasn’t about to commit Dora and, by extension, Laurie and me to it.

  The following Tuesday I met Tracy Lane, her mum Janet and her housekeeper Tania – a calm, sensible woman studying to be a nutritionist – at Costco in Watford to shop for food and drink for the end-of-run party. I had to join to go in with them, which involved paying a small fee in exchange for a small plastic card featuring a grainy black and white pic of me looking like a cartoon character whose face had been run over and squished pancake-flat. We gr
abbed a couple of giant trolleys and steered them around the warehouse, the size and contents of which left me feeling tiny, intimidated and completely incapable of deciding which varieties of cheese to buy. Fortunately, the others were much more confident and capable, and having decided that the food should be Italian because ‘it’s easier to decide what to make if you have a theme’ and Mexican might be too spicy for some of the children, they filled their trolleys quickly, competently and comprehensively. This inevitably left me feeling even more dithery and ineffectual, but, hey, the food shopping was done. And at least I’d been there, lending moral support and smiling.

  Tracy paid for the shopping, promising to let me know how much everything cost so we could divide the cost of the food amongst all the families, but she and David bought wine and beer, and juices for the kids. Tania and Tracy unpacked the trolleys and then repacked them on the other side of the checkout, whilst I hovered uselessly and Janet made a few well-timed and intelligent interventions. Then they packed their cars and Tania headed back to the house. I treated Tracy and Janet to a couple of truly revolting jacket potatoes in the Costco canteen and Tracy told me about her stage career – ‘in the end, I got bored of having to do the same thing eight times a week for twelve months [that’s how long the contract is for adult performers in musicals]. There I was, towards the end of my run, tapping away in 42nd Street, thinking about what I was going to cook for dinner and the ingredients I’d need …’

  Dora wasn’t ready to finish the next Monday with Mittens. ‘I wish I could do my last show with Molly-May,’ she sighed, on more than one occasion. Before the final schedule had arrived, I’d emailed Jo to ask if there was any chance this might be possible – especially as I knew Adrianna would love to do Mittens’ final show with them. But Jo kept the end of the schedule in line with the preceding few weeks, and who could blame her? Adapt the timetable to please one stage mother, and the floodgates would open and the requests cascade in: ‘You did it for X, why won’t you do it for us?’ making her job – which involves juggling a mind-boggling number of variables – completely impossible. ‘Never mind,’ I said, and we decided to buy tickets for the other teams’ final nights so Dora could be there and cheer her friends when they finished.

  She was satisfied with that. But during the week leading up to her final few shows, I heard a whisper that her wish might come true. There was a slight difficulty with the schedule. It had been drawn up on the assumption that none of the children would be continuing in their roles. Adrianna and Alicia – two of the Gretls – were carrying on, and it now looked like they might be scheduled to do too many performances over the couple of weeks when their old teams were finishing and their new ones starting. There was a possibility that Dora might be called back to cover a few of their shows. I didn’t mention this to her, in case it didn’t happen.

  She was, in any case, busy looking forward to the parties: the backstage team one, which, she was driven to a fever pitch of excitement to report, would involve not only a chocolate fountain, but also strawberries! And marshmallows!!! Then there would be the big party at Emily Lane’s house and, on her last night, a pre-show dinner with me and all her friends in Mittens at Piccolino’s, which Jack’s mum Sally had organised. Meanwhile, I was busy. As well as shopping with Tracy that week, I had several meetings to attend, my first ever video edit to supervise and twenty novels to read and write about over the next four weeks. In the middle of a manic week, during which I was running around Tescos sweeping food into my trolley whilst simultaneously reading a novel about middle-class women trying to make sense of their lives whilst out shopping, a thought struck me rigid. End of run. Cards. Presents. What would we be expected to give and to whom? I rang Helen, my font of wisdom on such matters, and a couple of the others. Yes. There would be cards. And pressies. Yikes. That afternoon, I sat Dora down. Together we compiled a list of everyone she wanted to give cards and pressies to. We decided that, given the state of my bank account, which, after six months of The Sound of Music, was ailing like a wan Victorian maid, and the fact that I didn’t know most of the people concerned well enough to know what they’d really like, she would make the presents for the grown-ups, and we’d buy gifts for the children.

  On Saturday, when I dropped Dora off at the Palladium, I felt sad. She wasn’t ready for it all to stop yet, and nor was I. My inner stage mother, I knew, would never be ready, but I had hoped that the rest of me would have had enough by now. Laurie certainly had. One or two of the other mums whose kids were finishing on the Monday were watching the show that night as well, but I resisted the temptation, travelled home on the tube, reading one of my work books, and turned my attention to cards and presents. This was my one and only shopping opportunity. I bought chocolates for the boys and jewellery and pretty little handbags for the girls on the two teams – Mittens and Kettles – that Dora had done all but a few of her shows and rehearsals with, and also for the other Gretls. I bought packs of cards for her to write – trying to make those as well would be more than we could manage.

  What with the party on Sunday, and a Monday packed with work commitments, there was no way we could have all the grown-ups’ pressies ready for Dora’s final evening. But as we were planning to come and watch the other teams’ final nights, we could drop the gifts and cards off then, which took some of the pressure off. In the end, our creative activities session stretched over the following week, took up the whole of our front room and left both of us looking preternaturally pale due to excessive exposure to powdered plaster. I mixed water into the plaster and poured the resulting gloop into fridge-magnet and mirror-frame moulds, while Dora painted and glittered, got frustrated waiting for the plaster to dry and made an impressive amount of mess. In total we produced four hand-painted cups, to which we added chocolate Easter eggs; one hand-painted suncatcher; three hand-cast and hand-decorated mirrors and twelve bejewelled fridge magnets. It doesn’t sound that much when it’s all compressed into one sentence, but it felt like a cottage industry. I was exhausted and hoped the plaster dust wasn’t too carcinogenic.

  Dora loved the chocolate fountain party. The children had decided weeks before that it was going to be a masquerade. At least the girls had. The boys weren’t quite so keen on the idea, but were outvoted four to two. One of Dora’s friends had given her a beautiful mask for her birthday – all black and gold glitter, with an entire mating display’s-worth of black, gold and brown feathers splayed on one side. She donned her fifties-style pink party frock and even pinker jacket, and clutched her mask so it hovered over her broad grin. I let her take my camera in to the theatre with her, and judging from the slightly out-of-focus photos, a great deal of chocolate was eaten. And smeared. I’ve no idea how the chaperones and dressers managed to get the six children clean enough to go back on stage for the evening performance. Anyway, Dora came out that night with an even bigger grin and a carrier bag of cards and small farewell gifts. Amongst these were a couple of little books for messages. Dora hadn’t been terribly organised about asking people to write goodbyes in her book: collecting autographs would have meant moving away from the chocolate fountain, and why would she want to do that? But the few messages she’d garnered were lovely, full of affection and generosity.

  ‘Was the party fun?’ I asked her in the car.

  ‘There was a chocolate fountain. And Jack was sick because he ate too much chocolate!’

  ‘What, really sick?’ I asked, finding it hard to imagine sensible, grown-up Jack making himself sick on chocolate.

  ‘Really!’ she said excitedly. ‘And Grace got chocolate all round her face!’

  ‘Did you eat lots of chocolate too?’

  ‘Some. I’m hungry. Where’s my chocolate croissant?’

  ‘I’ve got you this instead.’ I handed her a pain aux raisins. ‘I thought you might have had enough chocolate.’ This was a lie. The shop had sold out of pains au chocolat.

  ‘How were the shows?’ I asked.

  ‘Okay,’ she replied
, concentrating on eating.

  ‘Only one more to go.’ As I hadn’t heard anything about the two following weekends, I assumed they’d managed to rejig the schedule without calling her back in. ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘I’ll be sad on Monday,’ she said, concentrating on her cake. ‘I don’t want any more. You eat it,’ and she thrust a paper bag full of crumbs and one small, curved crust through the gap in the seats. I ate it when we stopped at traffic lights. She closed her eyes. I’ll be sad on Monday, I thought. I’m going to miss the show. I’m going to miss the people. I’m going to miss telling people that my daughter’s in the show. I’m going to have to deal with Dora missing being in the show. I made myself think about the next day’s party. Must remember to buy the flatbread …

  Sunday’s weather was pretty typical for mid-March in London. I walked round to our local twenty-four-hour supermarket to pick up the bread in the sunshine, then home again in the rain. While I was getting ready and chivvying the others along, Tracy rang to ask if we’d come earlier than we were intending. Dora decided not to wear a party dress this time, but to go ‘cool’, and put on a summer dress over jeans, finishing the outfit off with a denim jacket. I settled for black dress over black trousers that didn’t quite match, but knew that, happily, nobody would care enough about what I looked like to notice.

  I shouted at everyone to get into the car. ‘Come on! We’ll be late! LAURIE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?’ Dora was ready by the door. Laurie wasn’t, and seemed, as usual, completely unconcerned that my stress levels were rising rapidly. There was no way, obviously, that we were going to be late. We were leaving very early. ‘THAT’S SO WE CAN HELP TRACY GET EVERYTHING READY!’ Why was that our job? ‘BECAUSE I OFFERED!’ Why did I offer? ‘BECAUSE I’M NICE?’ Why didn’t my niceness extend to him? ‘ARE YOU TRYING TO WIND ME UP?’ What made me think he needed to try?