I smile anxiously and take a discreet step back out of the haze of whisky. Unabashed, Bill blunders merrily on.
‘So, Clare, what happened then? Changed your mind about what you wanted to do?’
Clare looks perfectly dismayed as her buried teenage dreams are cruelly exhumed and flung in her face. ‘Something like that, sir,’ she says with a small empty smile.
Bill Edwards lays his heavy, fat-fingered hand heavily on her shoulder.
‘This girl, this girl here gave me hope in the midst of chaos and despair. She was my only shining light during two decades, two decades, of Kylie Minogue cover versions. God help me.’
Clare looks as if she might be about to sink under the weight of his hand.
‘Right, well then.’ Somehow Mr Crawley manages to disengage Bill’s grip on Clare with zero fuss. ‘Let’s get you two down on the list then, shall we, before our esteemed director, Ms Caroline Thames, frightens you off? See you a bit later on, Bill,’ Mr Crawley says, deliberately leading us away through the mêlée.
‘So you can sing then, can you, you dark horse?’ I say to Clare as we thread our way through the crowd.
‘Oh, a bit, not as good as he was saying.’ Clare sighs. ‘It’s his fault, kept going on and on about what a great talent I was and how I should work at it, had me round his house for extra lessons after school, really built me up until I believed it. Stupid fool that I was I thought I really could be someone, but that sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, does it? Not to real people. Not to me, anyway.’
I push my hands into my pockets and try to think of something positive to say.
‘Well, I mean, look at all those TV talent searches. You could go on one of them.’
Clare snorts. ‘I could have about two years and three stone ago.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, he was exaggerating. I was never that good – I was just a bit better than the rest of my class.’
‘Colin.’ Mr Crawley leans over a trestle table and shakes the hand of a tall man in his mid-forties with a thick shock of greying black hair that has been styled in the manner of a breakfast TV presenter. ‘This is Kitty Kelly and Clare Brown, I bring you new talent!’ he says in full am dram mode.
‘Kitty, Clare.’ Colin shakes both our hands and I try to catch his eye and fail. ‘Colin Davies, Assistant Director in charge of casting.’ He looks us both squarely in the chest. ‘I must say it’s nice to have some fresh talent in the house, most people your age think this is all too dull for words.’ His gaze remains exactly one foot beneath Clare’s eye line. ‘Very refreshing indeed. So I’ll put you both down for the singing audition for a part and any other talents I might be able to make use of?’
Clare and I exchange an alarmed look.
‘I’ve got a sewing machine, so I could help with costumes?’ Clare says hesitantly.
‘Marvellous. Mrs Crosby’s had to give it up this year – arthritis, terrible shame, hems all over the place.’ He tears his eyes away from Clare’s chest and returns his attention to my torso.
‘And Kitty?’ He ogles me openly and I really can’t believe that a man can be so lecherous without any hint of embarrassment. Maybe he’s used to the female members flinging themselves at him in the hope they get a walk on part with a line.
‘Do you mind?’ I say tartly, feeling unusually compelled to make a fuss. My sharp tone regains Mr Crawley’s attention and he quickly appraises the situation.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Colin asks my left breast.
‘Oh, ah, Kitty …’ Mr Crawley tries to intercede but for once I decide to make a stand.
‘If you are going to engage me in conversation, do you think you could look me in the face occasionally in between ogling my tits?’ In my anger, the remnants of my Hackney accent creep into my voice. Colin’s breakfast smile freezes on his face and then falls. Mr Crawley’s face is a picture of dismay, and even before Colin speaks I suspect I’ve let him down somehow.
‘Ah yes, Kitty, you see Colin has a …’ he begins.
‘Severe sight disability,’ Colin finishes with his swiftly reinstated stellar smile. ‘Terribly sorry, should probably have mentioned it, but everyone here is so used to me by now that I’d almost forgotten about it. I have some sight but I am registered blind, I was born with a congenital defect. Although I look like I’m staring at your, um, middle, I’m really “seeing” your face, although admittedly a very fuzzy one. Odd, isn’t it?’ he says kindly.
I bite my lip hard as the only immediately available means of punishment and wonder if, when I’ve stopped picking on a blind person, I could maybe kick over a sick child or something?
‘Oh, oh, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry …’ I begin.
Colin shakes his head and his perfect hair doesn’t move.
‘No need to be, it’s quite refreshing actually. Some people are too embarrassed to ask and many are more likely to accept that I’m an old pervert rather than ask any questions, so at least you’ve cleared the air – but just for the record, even if I could see your bosoms they would hold little allure for me. I bat for the other side. Now you’re both on the list, so …’
I exchange a puzzled glance with Clare.
‘Colin, if you don’t mind me asking, if you can’t see very well then how do you know who to cast?’ I ask him in the spirit of refreshment.
He laughs and momentarily sucks on the end of his pen.
‘Well, Caroline does all the visual stuff. My sense of hearing is more acute and also, kooky though it may sound, I seem to be able to sense when we have exactly the right person, which is why over the last decade the Berkhamsted Players have consistently outperformed that band of amateurs in Tring, at least in my humble opinion.’
‘Don’t you and Caroline ever disagree?’ Clare asks him, and his smile wanes a little.
‘No one ever disagrees with Caroline …’ he begins before the woman herself confirms his statement.
‘Right, everyone, quiet please!’ Caroline, a tall, red-haired woman with a paisley printed pashmina flung round her shoulders silences the room instantly.
‘Caroline Thames, Director, Dictator and Despot,’ Mr Crawley whispers in my ear, with the merest hint of affection. ‘Screeching old harridan and control freak, but she certainly seems to get results.’
‘First of all, thank you for coming,’ Caroline tells us with brisk insincerity. ‘I’m glad to see a few new faces in the crowd,’ she carries on with the tone of a permanently slightly angry person. ‘Lots to get through. Let’s get the auditions over first, and then we can get back to having a drink and a chat. Take your seats please and be quiet. Andrew! Lights, please! Bill, put that glass of wine down and get to the piano while you can still remember how to play. Colin, who’s first?’
Clare, Mr Crawley and I shuffle into the middle of one of the rows of plastic chairs that have been set out before the stage area.
‘Barbara Ainsley!’ Colin calls out, and a slender woman with a neat brown bob and calf-length print dress walks into the spotlight.
‘Barbara,’ Caroline Thames’s voice booms out of nowhere. ‘Nice to see you – how are the children? Good.’ She doesn’t bother to wait for a response. ‘What number have you chosen to entertain us with?’
‘Um, the kids are fine and, um, I thought I’d do “Secret Love”, if that’s okay?’ An audible groan can be heard from the area of the piano, and Barbara’s cheeks pinken as the first bar of the song is played.
Caroline Thames lets her sing one verse before stopping her and shouting, ‘Who’s up next, Colin?’
And the parade continues. Clare and I count six ‘Secret Loves’ four ‘Windy Cities’ and three ‘Deadwood Stages’. Oh, and one husband and wife act do a sort of barber-shop version of the ‘Black Hills of Dakota’.
‘Don’t reckon you’ve got too much to worry about,’ Gareth Jerome says in my ear. I blink and spin round in my seat. He really is there. Somehow he has managed to occupy the middle seat of the aisle behind us without us noticing. I
glance at Clare, who is frozen rigid and sunk as low as possible into her chair. Mr Crawley eyes him with a hint of disapproval and returns his gaze to the stage.
‘What are you doing here?’ I whisper. ‘Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.’ Gareth shrugs and smiles.
‘I didn’t think it was yours either, until tonight.’ He stretches his arms along the backs of our chairs until he encompasses both Clare and me within his long-limbed reach. ‘No, I heard Mr Crawley tell you about it and you and Clare talking about it and I, well, I thought I’m still quite new in town so I might as well come along and volunteer for some scenery painting or something, meet a few new people, charm a few old ladies, pick up some work. Can’t hurt, can it?’ The breath of his whisper tickles the back of my neck. ‘Besides, I thought it might be a laugh.’
Mr Crawley twists in his seat. ‘Gareth, can I suggest you keep it down?’ he says as if admonishing a small boy.
Gareth catches Clare’s eye and winks at her before sinking back into the shadows. In the dark I reach for her hand and judge her reaction by the fierce grip with which she squeezes my fingers. If she’s happy he’s here, then so am I.
Mr Crawley takes his turn with all the aplomb I have come to expect from him. Within seconds he’s transformed himself before our very eyes from the tall and faintly aristocratic epitome of old-school Englishness into a rotund, bawdy, over-the-hill cowboy singing for all he’s worth.
‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ I whisper to Clare.
‘Yeah, it’s like magic. I mean, you can see it’s Mr Crawley, but it’s like it’s another person entirely!’
We are both still congratulating him on a virtuoso performance when the crunch comes.
‘Clare Brown!’ Colin shouts, and Clare jumps in her seat.
‘Oh, bloody bugger,’ she says, immediately frozen to the spot, the terrified whites of her eyes luminescent in the gloom.
‘CLARE BROWN!’ Caroline Thames breaks the sound barrier.
‘Go on, you’ll knock the socks off this lot!’ Gareth says encouragingly, squeezing Clare’s shoulders.
She smiles over her shoulder at him and squeezes along the row of chairs before climbing up on to the stage with about as much grace as one can muster when it involves clambering via a plastic chair.
‘At last, someone who won’t contribute to my early death. What are you going to sing, Clare?’ Bill asks, his voice warm with genuine affection.
‘Um, well, I thought …’ Clare clearly hadn’t thought about it until this moment.
‘“Secret Love” of course! Show all these silly women how it’s done!’
Clare’s sensitive cheeks pinken immediately and a ripple of consternation runs through the hall, but before it can gather pace Bill has played the opening bars and Clare has begun to sing.
In seconds the hall falls totally silent. Coughs cease, whispers abate and sniffs dry up.
Clare has a beautiful voice, an incredible voice. Rich and pure, each word she sings carries to the back of the hall, ringing in the air like a perfectly tuned bell.
‘She’s amazing,’ Gareth breathes in my ear, and I turn to look at his profile. He’s spellbound. I smile to myself: at last, a genuine development to report to Clare.
‘Tricky last verse coming up,’ Mr Crawley says quietly. ‘A real test of her mettle.’
Clare’s voice soars to the challenge and then re-enforces the melody with breathtaking power before letting her tone drop to a gentle whisper. She lives each word of the lyric, her face a shining picture, and as the last note echoes in the rafters she folds her hands over her heart and closes her eyes.
I glance at Gareth again and think, ‘No wonder she sings it with such meaning – she has her own secret love, one I’ve created for her out of thin air.’
A second’s silence follows her performance before the hall erupts into applause. Clare puts her hand over her mouth and giggles before climbing down from the stage and returning to her seat.
‘You were fabulous. Fabulous!’ Mr Crawley tells her and kisses her on the cheek.
‘Bloody hell, Clare, I thought you said Mr Edwards was exaggerating!’ I say warmly.
Gareth puts a hand on each of her shoulders. ‘You were amazing, really amazing,’ he says, his amber eyes focusing on her.
Clare glows, her eyes sparkle and her smile lifts her whole face. She looks beautiful.
‘Kitty Kelly!’ Colin calls and my blood runs cold.
‘Kitty Kelly? Is that a stage name or an unfortunate coincidence?’ I hear Caroline ask Colin as I head for the stage. Now that it’s come to it, I can’t think what on earth I thought I was doing.
‘Um, “Windy City”,’ I mumble miserably. Somehow, as Bill kicks in the opening um-pa-pa, I find Mr Crawley’s face shining in the gloom of the auditorium as if it has somehow been illuminated just for me. He smiles at me and nods his encouragement, and although he must only be mouthing the words, I’m sure that I hear him say in my ear as clear as day, ‘Just enjoy yourself – have fun and enjoy the moment.’
I fix my gaze on him and pretend we’re at home in the kitchen. I know that my voice alone isn’t going to get me anywhere, so I throw caution to the wind, jut out my chin, bow my legs and lower my voice, imagine that I am Calamity Jane and slap my thigh. Five minutes later I find that everyone in the room is laughing, two minutes after that I realise they’re laughing because they think I’m funny and not because they think I’m crap. My spirits lift and I throw any remnant of reserve to the crowds and clown it right through to the bitter end. There’s no rapt applause like there was for Clare, but as I make my way off the stage there are many friendly comments. ‘Very good!’, ‘What fun!’ and ‘Well done’ follow me as I return to my seat. Caroline Thames strides out on to the stage.
‘Well done, everyone,’ she says briskly, without the slightest hint of sincerity. ‘As you know, we believe in working on instinct in this company and making gut decisions, so we won’t be keeping you waiting for a week while we wait for someone to type the cast list – we’re not the Tring Troubadors after all!’ For reasons that I’m just beginning to understand, that comment rouses a competitive cheer. ‘Colin and I will nip into the office now and discuss our findings and be back in half an hour with a decision! In the meantime there’s more wine and biscuits, so enjoy, because this is where the fun ends and the hard work begins!’
‘Yeah,’ Gareth says as we ease our way out of the chairs, ‘right here is where you start paying!’ Clare and I giggle and exchange delighted glances as he invites Clare to go with him to fetch us some wine.
Mr Crawley watches him as he goes, a slight frown on his face.
‘Mr Crawley, um, Ian, is there a problem? Where’s Tim tonight, anyhow?’ I ask him.
For a second his eyes remain fixed on Gareth’s back, and then he returns his attention to me with his usual charming smile.
‘Flu, his mother tells me. To be honest with you, I think it’s far more likely that he’s got a girlfriend. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I just hope it doesn’t distract him from his grouting.’
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, so I smile at him and remember my sudden vision of his face just as I was about to sing.
‘Do you know, the strangest thing happened up there …’ I begin, gesturing at the stage. ‘I sort of heard your voice in my head and …’
Mr Crawley tips his head to one side and looks at me.
‘Did you? Must have been nerves or something,’ he says, displaying the kind of attention he usually reserves for Ella. ‘Oh Lord, there’s Mrs Ponsenby, I’ll go and say hello to her now before she finds out she hasn’t got the lead this year and goes into full-on diva mode.’ He disappears instantly into the throng; like me he must think that Clare’s bound to have got the lead.
As I wait for Clare and Gareth to return, I scan the faces of the Berkhamsted Players as they chat, laugh, gossip and bicker. They are somehow different from what I had imagined. I suppose I thought the
y would all be caricature versions of Fergus’s mum, or stout and angry women sporting tiaras and minks. Although Mr Crawley said they needed fresh talent, Clare and I are not the only people under thirty-five here, even if we are heavily outweighed by older members. There are more women than men, it’s true, but rather than the stiffly desperate and sad brigade of divorcees that I had expected, they are all different, all rather beautiful in a way I hadn’t imagined. And the male members seem terribly brave to me, almost heroic for carving out this place for themselves in a world where it is far easier to be alone and bored. For no particular reason that I can think of, this collection of ordinary people are oddly touching, and for a brief moment the threat of tears stings my eyes. I sniff and swallow hard, and put my sentiment down to my good old hormones.
‘I must say – Kitty, is it? You were fab.’ I blink hard and smile at the woman next to me. It’s Barbara Ainsley. ‘And your friend, Clare, well, makes me realise my pretensions to anything grander than the chorus were somewhat unfounded. Amazing!’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Barbara leans in a little closer to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I couldn’t help but notice that you came with Mr Crawley. Are you very good friends? It’s just that he’s a terribly good catch, you know, and half of Berkhamsted’s single ladies are here tonight, so if there’s no hope we’d all like to know.’ She gives me a sweet little smile and a wink indicating that either way there would be no hard feelings, even if he was my … um … ‘lover’.
‘Oh God, no!’ I say quickly, feeling my face burn. ‘No, he is my friend, yes, but strictly platonic. More of a … good fairy, really!’ I say, thinking of his shining face in the crowd when I auditioned. ‘Oh, but not a fairy, not in the Colin, oh fuck. I mean, oh dear. Oh sorry, Barbara.’
Barbara laughs uproariously. ‘You’re very amusing,’ she says, and just in case she thinks I meant to be, I leave it at that, firmly buttoning my lip.
‘I said to Harriet, that’ll be it, he’ll be being kind. If he’s not flung himself about since his wife passed all those years ago, he’s hardly about to start now with a floozy half his age …’ She claps her small hands over her mouth before saying, ‘I do beg your pardon, of course I didn’t mean you …’ She looks at me for one second more. ‘Well, I did mean you, but obviously I was totally wrong, and anyway we should have known better. Mr Crawley is always helping someone. It just seems to be in his nature!’ She bobs her head, almost as if she is taking a bow, and then excuses herself, no doubt to impart the good news to her friends.
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