by Sue Welfare
‘And don’t you dare bugger it up this time,’ Charlotte hissed under her breath as they walked back towards the wings.
Helen blinked back tears as Tony announced them. ‘Ladies and gentlemen – the Wild Birds!’ while Eddie played a few bars of their song. Charlotte didn’t even look at her as they walked back onto the stage. This time Helen was ready.
‘There you go, you see; not bad at all, that was much better. Just a bit of first-night nerves. It happens to the best of us. All you have to do is get down here and hit your mark, and relax,’ Tony said, giving Helen and Charlotte an impromptu round of applause, as the music for their number faded away. ‘You sound great. Really good – that was great. Okay.’
He stepped into the shadows by the orchestra pit and picked up his notes. ‘Anyway, we need to be getting on,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you two pop off and get yourselves sorted out for the show. You have got costumes, presumably, have you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Charlotte gushed. ‘I had them designed and made specially – they’re really amazing.’
Tony nodded indulgently. ‘Well, that’s good.’
Helen bit her lip. She felt hot, faint and slightly sick.
‘Right. And you’re happy?’ Tony said to Ed, who was still seated at the keyboard.
‘As a sand boy,’ Ed said, running his handkerchief over his sweaty brow. ‘And Tony’s right; you sounded great, girls. Well done.’
‘Good, well in that case off you go, we’ve got half a dozen more acts to run-through before the show. Do you know where to get changed?’ Before either Charlotte or Helen had a chance to reply, Tony said, ‘Vince here will look after you, won’t you, Vince? Show you where to go, if you need any help –’
The man who had sorted out their microphones, and who was now standing in the wings, raised a hand and waved. He was a scrawny man with a gingery complexion, close shaved head, and was dressed in a black tee shirt and matching jeans. He made his way over with a swagger.
Charlotte turned to beam at him. ‘That’s great, thank you,’ she purred.
‘My pleasure,’ said Vince. ‘Nice song. You did really well; bit nerve-wracking being out there on that great big stage. You done much singing?’
‘Only at school –’ Helen began.
Charlotte glared at her, stopping the words in her throat. ‘Quite a bit actually – charity things, small events mostly. Nothing quite like this.’
He nodded. ‘Well, you came across really well – if you’d like to follow me. You two ladies local, are you?’
Charlotte nodded. ‘We most certainly are,’ she said, all pout and eyelashes. ‘But we don’t intend to stay local for much longer.’
Helen looked away and glanced down into the first few rows of seats. Harry was nowhere in sight. Everything seemed slightly too loud and in too sharp a focus. She swallowed hard, trying to quell a wave of nausea that rippled through her.
‘Right, well I’ll just show you where the dressing rooms are – you’ve got bags round the back here? Your friend’s looking a little pasty. All right are you, sweetheart?’ asked Vince.
‘I’m just a bit nervous that’s all,’ said Helen, swallowing again. ‘I’ll be fine. I think I’m just going to go and get a bit of fresh air.’
‘Take no notice of her,’ Charlotte said, glaring at Helen. ‘Any excuse for screwing things up, aye? She likes to make a scene, don’t you, Helen?’
‘Excuse me,’ Helen mumbled and, breaking ranks, hurried away behind the curtains.
‘See what I mean?’ she heard Charlotte say. ‘She’s always been a bit of a drama queen. Likes to be the centre of attention does our Helen.’
With her stomach clenched into a tight unforgiving knot, Helen hurried across the stage, out behind the curtains, snatching up her bag and coat as she went, making for the stairs, dodging the stage hands, and finally – gasping for breath – pushed her way out through the fire exit at the very back of the theatre and ran into a small yard beyond.
Helen didn’t look back; she didn’t expect Charlotte would be coming out to see how she was.
In a little courtyard which backed onto the main car park, people were standing around under the awning of a mobile tea wagon, eating, smoking and chatting. As she hit the cold, wet, late-afternoon air Helen dry heaved, looked around in panic and then, with seconds to spare, stumbled across the yard and threw up into a rubbish bin bolted to a sign requesting people not to litter. She had barely eaten all day and her stomach protested as she retched again, relieving her stomach of what little it contained. Her arrival and her impromptu floorshow had stopped everyone dead in their tracks. As she made a show of composing herself, conversation resumed.
As Helen pushed her hair off her face, a man in a corduroy jacket, who had been standing chatting to a young woman by the tea van, ambled over to her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, as Helen wiped a hand across her lips.
She nodded. ‘Yes thanks, I’m okay. I’ll be fine,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s just been one of those days … or maybe it was something I ate. It’s nothing really. Thank you.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me,’ the man said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and handing it to her. ‘Here, would you like this?’
Helen nodded and took it gratefully. His female companion, who had a duffle coat wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, covering a leotard and thick tights, grimaced as Helen wiped her face and hands, though before Helen could hand it back, the man held up his hands and said, ‘No big deal, you can keep it, sweetie – your need is greater than mine. You want me to go and get anyone for you?’
‘No –’ Helen began. ‘I’m okay. Honestly.’
The man didn’t look convinced.
‘Have you been drinking?’ asked the dancer, grinding out a cigarette under her foot.
Helen shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t been drinking. I’m one of the acts for tonight.’
The woman still didn’t look convinced, while the man laughed. ‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be the first person by a long way to roll up steaming drunk before going on for a show. A lot of people can’t get up there without being stocious.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them.’ Helen glared at him. ‘I just told you, I am not drunk.’
‘If you say so,’ he conceded. ‘Although if you’re not drunk then that was one hell of an entrance. It should really get the judges’ attention. Do you do anything else or is that the only party piece you’ve got?’ He was smiling.
‘I’m a singer,’ said Helen indignantly, doing her best to say it with some confidence. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been sick before when we’ve sung. I think it’s probably just nerves. It’s all been a bit stressful today, getting here and then we were late and the girl I sing with is –’ Helen shut up when she realised that they were both staring at her. ‘Sorry, I’m running on, aren’t I?’
The dancer eyed her up and down. ‘You haven’t got a bun in the oven, have you, sweetheart? That can take you unawares too, you know,’ she continued, conversationally. ‘Morning sickness comes on all of a sudden, and don’t you take any notice of that “morning” crap, sick all day long I was with my little’ un. Morning, noon and night. Bloody exhausting, I can tell you. You want to go and see the doctor. Get yourself checked out –’
‘Of course I’m not pregnant,’ gasped Helen, reddening furiously. ‘It’s just that I’m worried about the show, that’s all – and getting everything right – and it looked like it was all going to go wrong, and this is a really big chance for us, that’s all. I just don’t want to mess it up …’ her voice faded away.
‘God, I know how that feels; it sounds like stage fright to me,’ said the dancer, sagely, lighting another cigarette. ‘You want one?’ she asked, offering Helen the packet.
Helen shook her head. ‘No thanks, I don’t.’
‘Suit yourself; I find it helps my nerves. It happens to mo
st of us at one time or another. You’ll get over it.’ The dancer grinned. ‘Or then again maybe you won’t. Some people never shake it off; even big stars, not just the minnows like us lot. You see them in the wings come show time, white as a sheet. I saw one man last year with a bucket. Great big bloke, he was – he didn’t look like he was afraid of nothing.’ She took a long pull on her cigarette. ‘Funny old things, nerves.’
Helen, still feeling a little queasy, nodded and kept her lips pressed tight together. She didn’t plan to tell anyone that her nerves had got nothing to do with singing or their act but much, much more to do with Charlotte and how horrible she had been, and the fear that everything that had gone wrong was all her fault. Maybe Charlotte was right, maybe she was useless. Maybe she should just go home and let Charlotte get on with it on her own; she seemed so at ease on stage. Helen had no doubt at all that Charlotte would be fine on her own. Just fine.
Another great wave of nausea rolled through her. Helen swallowed hard. The dancer eyed her up sympathetically. ‘You want to try to plan ahead; dry toast, that’s what I always have, two rounds of dry white toast, fills you up and settles your stomach a treat,’ she was saying. ‘Take it from an expert. Anyway I’ve got to be off and get changed.’ She turned towards the man. ‘See you tomorrow then, Arthur?’
‘Bright and early, Rita. Are you bringing Alfie along as well?’
The woman nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got to really, I’ve got no one to look after him for me tomorrow, but it’ll be fine. He’ll make a great rag-a-muffin – and besides it’s high time the little bugger started to pay his way, the price of his shoes.’
The man laughed. ‘Start them young, that’s what I say. How old is he now?’
‘Five,’ the woman said, and then nodding towards Helen as she made her way inside, added, ‘See you again. Take it easy, kid – you want to pace yourself.’
When she had gone the man turned his attention back to Helen. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘You look like you could do with something.’
Helen looked up at him and then hesitated, thinking about all the salutary tales she had been brought up on, all those dire warnings from her teachers about taking things from strangers. The thought must have shown on her face because the man grinned at her.
He had nice eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, making his way back over to the tea wagon. ‘You’ll be quite safe with me. I wasn’t thinking of whisking you away into the white slave trade, or anything half so exotic. About the only thing I can run to at the moment is a bacon sandwich. Now, what do you want with it, a mug of tea, coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’
‘Do you fancy a jam doughnut as well?’
Helen realised that she was starving. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, reaching into her bag.
‘It’s all right, put your money away – my treat,’ said the man, pulling out his wallet.
‘So what do you do?’ he asked, as he handed her a steaming mug and a doughnut in a brown paper bag.
‘I work in a toy shop, in town, Finton’s Finest Toys,’ she said. He waited and she reddened. ‘Oh, I see what you mean, you mean what am I doing tonight? I’m a singer,’ said Helen, sipping the tea gratefully. ‘Me and my friend; we do mostly pop and folk and stuff.’
‘Great. And have you ever done any acting?’ he asked.
Helen shook her head before taking a bite out of the doughnut, carefully nibbling around the jammy centre, knowing even as she did that she had managed to get powered sugar all over her nose. ‘No, well not now – I used to do a lot of drama when I was at school. It was really good fun, I loved it. I was in lots of plays and things, but I don’t get the time any more, not since I started working full-time, so now we’re both singers. Me and Charlotte. Charlotte’s my friend, the one who I sing with, although she’s still at school. Sixth form. I mean Kate not Charlotte, Kate Monroe. That’s her stage name. We thought it sounded better – you know – to have stage names. Sorry, I’m rambling again, aren’t I?’ Helen said, self-consciously.
The man laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’s probably just the nerves,’ he said and pulled a flyer out of the holdall he had slung over his shoulder. ‘I was wondering if you might be interested in this? They’re shooting this big historical film down on the quay tomorrow morning, and up along the stretch to the castle. It’s called Leaving Home – it’s about this family who go off to America to make their fortune, and I know they’re still looking for extras for the crowd scenes. Rita and her little boy are going. Me too. It’s easy money and it’s good fun, and they feed you really well …’
Helen glanced up at him. ‘It sounds great and thank you, but I’m not really an actress.’
‘And you don’t go off with strange men either?’
Helen reddened. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ She didn’t say that he seemed really nice or that she quite liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed.
‘It doesn’t matter if you’re not an actress,’ he was saying. ‘You don’t have to be. It’s all crowd stuff, background and atmosphere mostly. They’re shooting a market scene tomorrow – there’ll be loads of people milling about – to be honest it’s money for old rope, a lot of hanging around mostly.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Helen began, glancing down at the flyer.
The man shrugged. ‘Fair enough, please yourself. I’m not going to twist your arm, but it was just that I thought you might be interested, that’s all. You can keep the flyer. Pass it on if you can think of anyone else who might be interested. The more the merrier.’
Helen took a better look at the flyer. ‘Actually I think I heard about this. Wasn’t it in the local paper?’ she asked. ‘Are they shooting it by Castle Hill as well?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, they’re closing the road tomorrow and that bit of street between the quay and the Excise House, in the old part of town,’ he said, extending his hand, ‘My name is Arthur by the way. Arthur Frankham.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Pleased to meet you Arthur, I’m Helen –’ she stopped and thought about it a split second. ‘Helen Redford.’
‘Is that your stage name?’
Helen grinned and nodded. ‘Yes it is, does it sound daft?’
‘No, not at all, it sounds great, actually. So, pleased to meet you, Helen Redford,’ he said, shaking her hand firmly. His handshake was warm and firm without being bone-crushingly fierce. ‘How are the nerves now?’
Helen considered for a moment and then laughed, ‘Fine. I think they’ve all gone.’ Not only were they gone but she could feel a funny little spark arcing between them, and was almost certain that Arthur fancied her.
‘Jam doughnuts and a mug of tea, my own patent cure,’ he was saying.
‘So are you an actor?’ she asked, taking another sip from her mug.
‘No, well not really,’ he said. ‘I do odd bits in film or TV. Crowd stuff, walk-ons, a few lines here and there mostly. It’s not exactly a career, but the way you get on in this business is as much about meeting the right people as talent, so it’s a good way to get your face known. In real life I’m a writer.’
‘Really?’ said Helen, genuinely impressed. ‘Wow, that is amazing. I’ve never met a proper writer before. Should I have heard of you? I mean are you famous? Have you had anything published?’
Arthur laughed, ‘No, not yet – and okay, to be honest the acting thing is not just about making connections, I need to eat sometimes too.’
Helen smiled. She had no problem understanding that. Harry’s dad, her boss, deducted her rent and share of the bills for the flat from her wages for working at the toy shop, which was good, but didn’t leave much over for things like food or clothes. She had worn the same shoes all summer and now had blown the budget on the sandals that Charlotte had insisted they needed for tonight’s show. Even without the shoes, by payday things were always tight, which made her reconsider Arthur’s suggestion. Payday was still a week away and all that she had left in her side of the kit
chen cupboard was half a packet of Weetabix, two tins of beans and a one-man Fray Bentos steak and kidney pudding. Helen took another look at the flyer. ‘And they pay you when exactly?’
‘If they take you on? At the end of the day, cash in hand. No messing about. And they pay you for the whole day whether they use you or not.’
A bit more money would certainly help. She hadn’t paid Charlotte for her costume yet. ‘Okay, thanks, I’ll think about it,’ Helen said, tucking the flyer into her bag.
‘If you do come along can you tell them that I sent you?’ As he spoke Arthur handed her a business card. ‘That’s me,’ he said, running a finger under the name.
‘Arthur Frankham,’ she read aloud. ‘It doesn’t say that you’re a writer on here.’
‘No, I know. That was my idea. I do other things and this way I didn’t need to have more than one set of cards printed.’
Helen nodded. ‘So what sort of things do you write?’
‘Mostly science fiction but I’m thinking about setting up as an agent.’
‘What, for books, like a literary agent?’
He laughed. ‘No, not for books. I can barely sell my own stuff let alone anyone else’s, so no, not for books. For actors, extras mostly I think. I’ve done quite a lot of work for films and TV over the last two or three years and I’ve made quite a few really good contacts, people I could work with, people who need extras and – well, it’s early days yet but it’s just an idea I’m kicking around.’
Helen smiled. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.’ She tucked the business card into her bag alongside the flyer. ‘And it would help you pay the bills till you get a big film deal for one of your books,’ she added.
Arthur beamed. ‘I like your style, Miss Redford. Maybe I should sign you up; you could be my first real client.’
Helen grinned right back at him. ‘Maybe you should,’ she said, ‘I’m a great prospect.’