Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  Hampstead are prepared to pay three and half thousand pounds for the privilege of staging my play. The AD herself, Penny Franklin, wants to direct and is very keen to meet me to discuss her ‘vision’ for the play. She would want to work closely with me in order to maximise the chances of a successful transition ‘from the page to the stage’.

  ‘Meaning what?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll have some say in casting and set design, I should imagine, and they’ll probably want you to sit in on rehearsals.’

  Casting. Set design. Rehearsals. Are these words really being used in conjunction with a work of mine? Someone pinch me.

  ‘So,’ says Miles, ‘should I set up a meeting?’

  ‘Do it.’

  I leave Miles’s office that afternoon trying to remember if I’ve ever been so happy. Out in reception, I grab Steph and plant a smacker on her cheek (she goes red with shock) then leave the building tum-te-taa’ing like a kid with a fistful of sweets.

  A day before my meeting at Hampstead, I hook up with Evan to get some idea of what I might expect from it and how best I might prepare for it. He gives me some very sound advice, having had his fingers burnt by Milo the Genius. He says that the first and most important thing is not to be intimidated. ‘Believe it or not, she needs you more than you need her.’ Don’t commit to anything, he says. Whatever she tries to get me to agree to, I should ask for time to think about it. If she asks too many questions about the play, it means that, at best, she’s unsure about it and, at worst, just doesn’t understand it. If I suspect the latter, I should get her to tell me what she thinks the play’s about, make her tell me what attracted her to it. If her assessment differs markedly from my own, then a consensus needs to be arrived at pretty quickly, preferably there and then, and certainly long before casting – otherwise, there’ll be trouble ahead. I should listen a lot more than I speak. I’m there to check her out, to see whether or not she has what it takes, and I’m going to find that difficult if I’m running my mouth off the whole time, which I’m likely to do if I’m nervous.

  If she mentions the need for revision, I should get her to say which specific areas of the play she’s referring to. I shouldn’t get defensive about it for that might give the impression I’m being precious, which doesn’t bode well for a successful writer-director relationship, but I should definitely try to pin her down on specifics. If she can’t be pinned down, if she seems vague, then there won’t be any major revision required and her original remark would be exposed as a snide way of letting me know that, whilst she thinks the play is good, I should rid myself of the notion that it’s by any means perfect. ‘It’s the director’s job to puncture the writer’s ego. They do it as a matter of course.’

  Regarding scheduling, she’ll probably be pushing for a specific date, in which case it means the theatre has a slot to fill and is making all humanly effort to fill it. If that date suits me, then fine, there’s no problem but, if, for some reason, it doesn’t – more time for revision is the usual one – then I simply must hold out for a later date. And, if the director says there are no other slots for the foreseeable future, then she’s trying to scare me by implying that I run the risk of missing out all together. ‘That won’t happen. If she likes the play enough, and it sounds like she does, a more suitable date will be found.’

  And, finally, he says that, prior to the meeting, I should do a little digging into the director’s character, get a sense of what sort of person I’ll be working with. ‘I think she has a reputation for being a bit of a control freak. It could be true, it could just be gossip. All I’m saying is try to go into the meeting with some sense of who you’re dealing with. It’ll put you at an advantage, especially since she won’t know the first thing about you.’ I leave Evan that day my with my head in a spin.

  The following day I call Piers and tell him my news.

  ‘That’s terrific,’ he says, ‘really terrific. Well done, mate. You deserve it.’

  I thank him and we spend the next few minutes chatting about this and that. I ask him about the current situation at the Crucible and he tells me that, whilst it’s generally better, he’s not yet out of the woods. No one refers to the showcase any more but, between him and the corrupt judge (and Hattie), there’s yet a noticeable tension. But, all in all, things have improved. I then get him to tell me all he knows about Penny Franklin – which turns out to be not very much and certainly nothing I couldn’t have deduced myself. Apparently she hates the Crucible. She’s on record for saying that she finds it smug and undeserving of its reputation as the home of new plays. She resents the fact that most writers view it as some kind of Holy Grail and will only consider other theatres as a last resort. But what really gets her goat is when a smaller theatre, such as hers, takes the time to nurture and develop unknown writers, only to see them poached by the big theatres – such as the Crucible – who then take all the credit for discovering them. It’s a gripe echoed in practically every small theatre in London and it’s boring and hypocritical – hypocritical because those same people who are constantly carping about the nefarious practices of the big theatres would never in a million years pass up the opportunity to work in one.

  ‘So she’s bitter, is she?’

  ‘As bile,’ says Piers.

  ‘But is she a good director?’

  ‘Up there with the best, in my opinion. Hampstead won’t be able to hang on to her for much longer, I don’t reckon. I hear she’s in line to take over at the Barbican.’

  ‘You’ve read the play. Is she the woman to stand it up?’

  ‘I’d have to say yes.’

  ‘Appreciate the advice, Piers. Speak soon.’

  ‘I expect an invite to opening night.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  We say our goodbyes and hang up. Immediately afterwards, I call Richard. We talk for a while about the CCTV, both expressing regret at the way things turned out. He asks after Emily and I tell him that I haven’t seen her in a while. He makes me promise to relay his best wishes to her should our paths ever cross. I ask about his writing and he tells me that, after keeping his play on the grid for months, the Crucible eventually rejected it.

  ‘I didn’t know you were on the grid.’

  ‘I wanted to keep it under wraps till they’d made a decision one way or the other.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m hopeful of getting it put on somewhere else. One or two people are showing interest which is encouraging.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Finally, I get around to asking him about Penny Franklin. He thinks she’s an excellent director but, from what he’s heard, she’s supposed to be a bit of a prima donna.

  ‘But those are just rumours,’ he says. ‘Treat as you find is what I say.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s the best piece of advice I’ve had so far.’

  ‘Good luck with it all. Not that you need any luck. I’ve never had the chance to say this but I always thought you were the best in the group. Mind you, you haven’t always shown it …’ we both chuckle at that, ‘but I hoped you’d fulfil your promise some day. I’m pleased to see you have.’

  ‘I had a lot of expert tuition.’

  He laughs. ‘Take care of yourself, Jem. And don’t forget my invite to opening night.’

  ‘As if…’

  17

  I feel surprisingly calm as I arrive for my lunchtime meeting at Hampstead Theatre. The person I assume to be Penny Franklin is standing outside the main entrance, clutching a manila envelope. If it is her, she looks nothing like the dragon I had expected. She’s too small for a start – five foot two at the most – and her round face and Pam Ayers hairdo make her look even less threatening.

  ‘Penny?’

  ‘Jem?’

  ‘Pleased to meet you finally.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  A quick handshake, a split-second appraisal,
then, ‘You don’t mind if we have our meeting over there, do you?’ She points towards the pub across the road, the Swiss, a massive thing with a paved seating area outside.

  ‘Wherever’s fine with me.’

  We dart amidst the traffic to the other side of the road and enter the pub. There’s only a handful of people inside, mainly office workers enjoying liquid lunches. After we’ve chosen where to sit, I offer to buy Penny a drink but she won’t hear of it and so I give her my order and she goes off to the bar. She leaves her manila envelope on the table and it’s all I can do not to take a peek. Presently, she returns with our drinks, a pint of Guinness for me, a pint of some unknown lager for herself. She gets comfortable in her seat then raises her glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says.

  ‘Cheers.’

  We touch glasses then moisten our taste buds, maintaining eye contact throughout. Her gaze is steady, almost challenging, and I have to dig deep to prevent myself from looking away. Let the games begin.

  ‘So, tell me, where did you get the idea for this brilliant play?’

  Remove the adjective from that sentence and you’re left with a straightforward request for information. With it, you have flattery. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s flattery. Not a good start, Ms Franklin.

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘How long did it take you to write it?’

  ‘About five months.’

  She seems a bit put out by that – as though unsatisfied with the length of time. It never ceases to amaze me how strong the belief is that the longer a piece takes to write, the better it must be. Even a dimwit must know that this can’t possibly be true in all cases and yet there are those who cling to the idea as to an article of faith. If a writer hasn’t suffered, if he or she hasn’t left blood on the page, then it’s a given that whatever they produce won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. What’s worrying is the number of writers who buy into this claptrap, less out of conviction and more out of a desire to be seen to be suffering for their art. They’ll happily torture themselves because that’s what it means to be writer. It’s no wonder so many of them end up mad or alcoholic or hooked on drugs – or all three.

  Penny goes on to ask me a series of questions about the play, reminding me of what Evan said. If she asks too many questions about the play, it means that, at best, she’s unsure about it and, at worst, she just doesn’t understand it. As it happens, her questions have nothing to do with either. She understands the play perfectly and carries out such a rigorous and effective deconstruction that I begin to see in it qualities I never knew existed. I let her do all the talking, happy to listen while she brings her critical mind to bear on even the most subtle points in the play. If she directs half as well as she analyses, I’ll have no cause for complaint.

  ‘You’ve given this thing some thought, haven’t you?’ She visibly relaxes. ‘Sorry, I’ve been babbling.’

  ‘Don’t apologise – I’m impressed.’

  ‘It’s just that I believe in being thorough. Some say I’m over-thorough and perhaps I am but, for me, it’s important to know a piece intimately. Of course, I’ll never know it the way you do but that’s all right. I must be free to make my own discoveries, see it in my way – just as the actors will and just as the audience will. The paradox of art is that it belongs to everyone and no one.’

  She opens her manila envelope and removes a wellthumbed copy of my play. She rests it on her palm, as though weighing it, and says, ‘This is no longer yours.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No. It was yours during the writing but, the moment you completed it…’ She makes as if to send the script sailing into the air, ‘it flew.’

  ‘Flew where?’

  She waves her arm about. ‘Out there.’

  I’m beginning to have second thoughts about her. I stare into her eyes, making doubly sure she hasn’t flipped.

  She settles my fears by saying, ‘I’m speaking metaphorically, of course.’

  I should hope so. ‘You don’t have to worry – I’m not one of those possessive writers.’

  ‘Glad to hear it though the proof of the pudding, as we know, is in the eating.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘When you attend rehearsals, as I want you to do, there’ll be times when you’ll feel as though I’m taking liberties with the text. At other times, you’ll be annoyed by the actors’ inability to speak the lines the way you intended them. Often you’ll want to scream. Given all that, it remains to be seen whether you’ll be able to resist interfering.’

  She’s giving me a lecture and I resent it, for it presupposes that these are matters of which I couldn’t possibly have any knowledge or experience. She knows nothing about me and yet she’s assumed I’m a novice who would benefit from a little instruction. That it’s a correct assumption makes it no less unwelcome. I’m reminded of something else Evan said. The first and most important thing is not to be intimidated.

  ‘Like I said, I’m not possessive.’

  She takes the hint and moves on to talk about more technical stuff. She’s given some thought to how she wants the set to look and what sort of mood she’d like to create on stage. She has already spoken to a designer and the plan is for the three of us to get together at some point to see what we can come up with. Once we’ve agreed on something, the designer will then be asked to build a model.

  ‘A model?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, you know, like a doll’s house? They’re usually made of out of balsa wood.’ She pats my arm and adds, ‘If you’re very nice, we might let you keep it.’

  Now she’s being patronising. I’m beginning to see how she got her reputation. There’s something superior about her – an arrogance, as there is with most intelligent people. She wields her cleverness like an axe and I’ll have to be very careful with her if I’m to keep my head.

  She starts talking about a time slot. The plan is to open at the beginning of February for a four-week run with the option to extend.

  ‘Wow. February. That’s very soon.’

  ‘Yes it is, but it’s the only slot we have available for I couldn’t even begin to say how long.’ She gives me a puzzled look. ‘Have I said something funny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you grinning?’

  ‘I do that a lot. It means I’m enjoying myself. Do you envisage a lot of changes?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘To the play.’

  ‘No, not many.’

  ‘In which case, the February slot’s fine by me.’

  She seems relieved. ‘Good, then that’s settled.’ She starts wrapping up. We schedule our next meeting for a week’s time, when I’ll get a chance to meet the casting director. ‘Between the three of us, we must draw up a list of actors who will then be sent copies of the script and invited to attend auditions, so put your thinking cap on. If you can think of any actors who might be suitable for the roles, make a list of their names and bring it with you next time. It’s OK to have a long list. I usually like to audition about five actors for each part. Casting is crucial and we need to get it right.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  * * *

  I spend the next five days in a warehouse in deepest darkest Edmonton, packing coat hangers for nationwide distribution. How I got the job was very last minute. I took a call one morning from the agency and they told me about this company who were so desperately short of staff they were willing to pay twice the usual rate if I could begin work immediately and see out the rest of the week. I accepted the offer but only because, financially, I couldn’t afford not to. It turns out to be backbreaking work and I make up my mind that, as soon as I’m in a position to do so (i.e. the moment I get paid by the theatre), I’ll officially declare myself a full-time writer. I’ve had it up to here with all this Dickensian labour.

  During this time, I hardly see anything of Sarah and nothing at all of Evan or Ollie. I come home from the factory feeling
so exhausted that all I want to do is sleep. For the first four days, I do just that. I crash out on the sofa then wake up, starving, around nine. I have a bath, eat, watch a bit of telly and, by eleven, I’m in bed. It has to be eleven otherwise I stand no chance of getting up at six. Six, for the love of God. It’s a pattern I could never get used to. How other people cope with it, day after day for years on end, is beyond me.

  While I’m on the factory floor packing coat hangers, my mind is free to wander. I spend most of the time thinking about which actors I might like to see in the play. No names come to mind – only faces and I can’t remember whether I’ve seen them on stage or on screen. I start thinking about Ollie. If only there was a part he could play. I’d love us to work together at some point – we’d have such a laugh. I hope he gets the part in the sit-com. Appearing regularly on TV is exactly the sort of exposure he could do with at this stage in his career. It would surely lead to other things. And, if it didn’t, then Evan and I would be duty bound to write parts especially for him, thereby keeping him in regular employment. That’s provided we can continue to get our work put on, which is by no means guaranteed.

  Many a playwright has vanished from the scene after entering it in a blaze of glory. They usually end up writing for TV, the graveyard of the modern dramatist, or they defect to film, which promises so much but which invariably delivers nothing but frustration and heartache, or they stop writing altogether – they simply give up, unwilling to accept that, as a writer, you’re only ever as good as your last piece of work and that you have to prove yourself over and over and over again. Is that what awaits me? How long will it be before I’m… But would you listen to me? I haven’t even had my first production and already I’m washed up. Surely it would be better to get the career first and then worry about its longevity afterwards. The party will end when it ends. In the meantime I’m determined to enjoy it.