Then the children were dragged out of bed and into their new uniforms. Their warm limbs were pressed into the stiff fabric, still criss-crossed with the creases from the packaging and Janet wished that she had remembered to wash the new shirts and Shelley’s tidy pinafore. But it would have to do and she tried not to let Alice’s reproachful glances upset her. Bonnie Jean did not want to notice the black hands with the soft pink palms gently tugging at Pieter’s shirt and Shelley’s dress, trying surreptitiously to pull them straight before they were bundled into the car and driven up the road to school. They were dispatched, creases and all, and Sylvia sent off to nursery school amidst the wails of the very new children clinging to the masts of their mothers’ legs, not wanting to set sail on such strange seas. Janet always remembered Sylvia’s matter-of-fact goodbye. Don’t cry, Mommy, she said, before expressing the fervent hope that there would be peanut butter and syrup sandwiches for lunch. At that stage, Sylvia lived on peanut butter and golden syrup. With her brown skin and golden hair, she herself looked like she was made out of peanut butter and syrup. It was a delicious sight as she trotted off.
Janet drove home swiftly. She needed to look at more lines before she set off again to become bonnie Jean and meet the rest of the cast that evening. A thrill of excitement ran through her. How glad she was that Eileen Wilson from next door, bold, brassy Eileen, her neighbour on the other side, had casually said, What about Brigadoon. They were putting on Brigadoon, a lovely musical, a most delightful story, and that there would surely be a part for her. And so she had auditioned before the holidays. On a hot November night, she had gone with Eileen up to the primary school to audition. What an exciting word! Audition! How they had giggled like two schoolgirls as Eileen squinted at the dark road ahead, refusing to wear her spectacles on this the night of the audition. Her husband, Phil the pilot, was away again having flown the coop and Eileen felt free as a lark. Her enthusiasm had caught Janet up in its warm wings and had swept her all the way up the road to the primary school and into the arms of ERADS, the East Rand Amateur Dramatic Society, formed in 1974 and ready to set sail on a second voyage after its maiden success with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. From Shakespeare to the Highlands of Scotland, ERADS was looking to entertain, to take as many minds as possible off the worries of those tough years in the early seventies. How fortunate that they had chosen Rynfield Primary School as their base, in the heart of suburban Benoni, within easy striking distance of Boksburg, Brakpan – and even Springs and Kempton Park on the other side. Housewives and busy white professionals were all most welcome.
You will be most welcome, Eileen said as they drove the short distance up Nestadt Street. Phil loves to think of me on stage, I know he does. He talks about it. Men like that, their wives –
And Janet could never have guessed. At that stage, she just hoped. It seemed like fun. Something different. Hektor-Jan in his uniform, their lives rather regimented. This was a complete break in routine. She had not yet thought about the make-up, the spotlights, an entire cast. But it was a change, a welcome distraction.
You are most welcome, said Derek-just-call-me-Derek the director of the show when Eileen, so tall and impressive and sure of herself, had done the introductions.
And they had thrown themselves with fits of giggles onto the tiny wooden chairs purloined from a neighbouring classroom and carried to the hall as there had been such a response off the back of that year’s theatrical success. And Janet had the strange sense she might indeed be sitting on one of the chairs on which her children had been ensconced that day. And the hard wood and stiff back of the chair became suddenly warm and soft and Janet felt as though she, too, might rediscover some of her youth. Maybe it was a chair on which she herself had sat as a child, for she had gone to little Rynfield Primary School from the ages of six to thirteen. She was in Stanley House – the white house – just as her children were now, not in Rhodes – red – or Livingstone – grey. It was wonderful how secure she felt letting those recollections wash over her, the sights and sounds of her childhood, though it was more the smell of the hall, the very essence of the place, that had not changed in almost twenty years. She could just about be one of those explorers mentioned. With Eileen chortling beside her, Janet felt as though she had plonked a pith helmet on her head and was merrily feeling her way back through the long grass of her past and then Eileen dug an excited elbow into her ribs and they all hushed as Just-call-me-Derek had clapped his soft hands and was earnestly clearing his throat in their direction.
They were quiet, like an audience themselves. About thirty men and women, Eileen whispered. Janet could feel the lights almost dim and she shivered. Just-call-me-Derek rocked forwards onto his toes as though he was going to jump theatrically at them. He had a sheaf of papers wedged under his arm and he cleared his throat a second time. Eileen turned and beamed at Janet. You’ll love him, she whispered and Janet stared at the soft, important man who did not look like his spiky name – Derek – at all. More of a Francis, for he was lightly freckled too and Dereks should not be freckled, surely. Janet stifled another giggle and Eileen grinned as the director delivered his speech.
His words spread like hopeful syrup across the peanut butter of the hall with its sepia light and soft brown tones of the brick walls and wooden floorboards. Janet only partially heard them as she kept thinking, This is like being in a sandwich, this is just like being in a peanut butter sandwich. Here I am, seated like a child on a tiny chair between Eileen and a little pixie of a man, caught between the slices of my youth and the onset of middle age. Here I am, back in my old school hall, which is suddenly so warm and so small, stuck between rows of East Rand adults, the merry gang of the ERADS. He who dares, ERADS, came strangely to her and she struggled not to chortle out loud as Derek-who-should-be-Francis built up to a rousing murmur – or sigh even – He who dares, wins, and we plan to win, which almost sent his little body catapulting lightly into the first row, so enthusiastically did he rock forwards on his feet.
There was applause, polite, genteel applause and murmurs of appreciation. Yes, they dared, yes, they would win. Bring on Brigadoon, they could do this, of course they could. And then, like a miniature teacher, Derek-Francis flourished a great sheaf of papers and they were passed along the rows and all the way to the back. Everyone got one. On one side were the female lines – a dialogue between Jean and her sister Fiona, on the other side was the manly repartee of the two Americans, Tommy and Jeff. And there was a snippet of song at the bottom of each page too. Gently, Derek-Francis explained how they would be given ten minutes to pair up and to practise the lines of both characters. They might be asked to play the part of Jean or Fiona – the women, Tommy or Jeff – the men. And she and Eileen were swept up in the hilarity that scattered them all across different parts of the hall so that they could throw themselves into becoming someone else.
I’ll do Fiona first, said Eileen and Janet was Jean. Eileen gripped the script and seemed ready to throttle every single line. It was as though she had Fiona by the throat and was going to wring each word from her lips. Janet looked at her friend in surprise. She knew that Eileen had played only Robin in Midsummer – as Eileen blithely called it – and had doubled up as Wall, and that she was desperate to land a better part this time. And Janet had the quiet sense that Eileen had asked to be her audition-buddy, perhaps in the secret hope that not only was she being nice and neighbourly, but that she would certainly not suffer by comparison with the more restrained and possibly – here Janet felt ashamed of her suspicions – more dowdy Janet. She was certainly not as long of limb as Eileen, nor was her hair quite as brassy. Eileen had kept certain features of a beehive but had added golden bits, rather like streaks of honey. And Eileen’s voice, coming down from on high, possessed an amazing, resonant quality, like someone about to yodel but deciding not to only at the last moment. That was certainly the case when Eileen put on her stage voice and began to do unexpected things with her mouth and limbs. Janet waited for her cue
with a sense of wonderment – there was more to acting than she ever thought possible. Just behold the strange change that came over her neighbour. Janet did not know whether to reach out and pinch her, or to pinch herself. Instead, she buried her nose in her script and tried to breathe normally.
And then there came the little buzz of adrenalin, like another fly suddenly up against a pane of glass, and Janet felt that she was up against it, and, as the fly buzzed in her stomach, with a clear voice and a sudden, marvellous sense of urgency, she threw herself into being bonnie Jean, the bonnie Jean that all the men of the village of Brigadoon might sing to, about coming home, coming home to bonnie Jean. And as the words poured from her lips she kept thinking about her Hektor-Jan and that she was the reason that he came home every night – the following year it would be every morning, how odd – from his hard day with his warm strength and hairiness and that she, little Janet, was his fortress and his tiny strong tower. That was she. And Janet now transformed like a butterfly from a small suburban chrysalis to become bonnie Jean calling all her dear men to her so that they might sing and be strong because she, she was so bonnie and bright. A butterfly on fire. Aflame with tartan colour and Celtic vivacity.
There. It was done. Derek-Francis and Eileen stared at her with open mouths. The rest of the performers, by now tired and jaded, looked up in surprise. What an audition. What a performance. Janet, little Janet, had stepped right into the shoes of bonnie Jean, just like that. Amazing. They were amazed. Who would have thought. Honestly, where did that come from and Eileen was full of praise for her friend who had landed a small but important role just like that, while she, Eileen, a veteran of Midsummer, had been given another chorus part, with two lines of dialogue as some old crone selling rustic Highland treats in the village market.
Amazing, repeated Eileen in the car on the way back home, amazing. And she patted Janet maternally on the knee as though she were her child and had brought home an entirely unexpected piece of good fortune, as though she had won the best prize at a tombola stall or had pulled a giant rabbit out of someone else’s hat. Amazing.
And when she had dropped Janet off at the bottom of the short drive, before heading home to the empty house next door, Eileen had leaned across and again had patted Janet on the knee. With a voice almost choked with emotion, Eileen had said that this could be the making of Janet. That she must give it her best shot. She must just be strong and go for it. And should she ever have any doubts, then her understudy, Eileen, could always step in if she ever needed her to.
And Janet had almost reached out and patted Eileen-the-Understudy, too, but had kept her hands to herself at the last moment and had simply murmured her appreciation and that she was sure that there would be at least one night when Eileen might step into the shoes of bonnie Jean. And then she had escaped from the car calling her cheery thanks just before the possible onset of tears because Eileen did not have a proper part and her husband was hardly ever at home and she had no beautiful children like Janet who now, on top of it all, had an important – though fairly small – part in the play.
Brigadoon, Janet had whispered to herself as Eileen’s car had stumbled off, choked up with guttural emotion, its headlights searching the way back to next door. And Janet stood there whispering Brigadoon to herself, sounding out each syllable in a Scottish accent which she would have to practise. Brig – a – doooon, as Eileen’s car shuddered to halt next door and the lights dimmed. Brig – a – doooon, Janet whispered to the warm night and to the streetlight that filtered through the leafy silhouettes of the plane trees on the broad street and scattered a wonderful mosaic of yellow and greeny-black shadows all over the pavement. And she danced a little jig, a neat Highland fling, there in the dark. Only as she made her way to her front door, up the steps to the veranda and towards the house, did she hear Eileen get out of her car and slam the car door. Of course, those were the days before the crack.
And so, on the evening of the first rehearsal in January, there was a little hoot, a quick jovial toot on the drive to let Janet know that Eileen-the-Understudy was ready.
Bye, called Janet softly to Alice who was doing the dishes in the kitchen and who was going to sit up with the radio after making sure that Pieter and Shelley brushed their teeth properly, and took their tiny fluoride tablet to keep their teeth strong and healthy and white. That seemed to be the latest craze in responsible parenting: fluoride tablets. Another thing to worry about. Motherhood – it seemed – was a never-ending series of anxieties and little concerns. Janet was almost relieved to be heading out, to be leaving her capable Alice in charge. Goodbye, Alice, she said, as Eileen hooted softly a second time. Janet flung herself with her script from the front door.
Shelley’s Secret Journal
Today’s word from Granny’s list is INTERMINABLE.
The interminable wait for school is over. I love school. I am twenty-second on the class list and I sit by the window in each classroom and even in the laboratory. You know exactly where you are with school. The teachers are in charge and know things. They tell you things and you write them down in nice books that smell so clean. You underline the date with a ruler and rule off after each piece of work. I understand Granny why you liked university better than being stuck at home. Mommy and Pappie have also decided not to be stuck at home tonight. Its only us children, Alice and Jock in the ground. He will never leave home. Mommy sent us to school in uniforms still with stupid lines from the packaging. Did you ever do that Granny? I promise I will indubitably never ever do that to my children. I will also look after my husband and my dog and maybe only have two children two boys called Jack and Jock. They might be twins with red hair. No one will be able to tell them apart except for me. They shall have puppies as pets and be able to swim whenever they want to and I shall love them inviolably. I have warned Pieter. I told him not to. It is his last chance but I don’t think that he will learn the easy way. He is a bit like Mommy. I am more like you Granny. Love, Shelley.
Happy New Year! rang out amongst the cast as each new arrival was embraced. They had not seen each other since the November auditions. From all over the East Rand they came, and there, beside her tall friend, was Janet who was bonnie Jean. Was she well. Had she had a lovely Christmas. Goodness me, who could forget her audition. Was it truly her first audition ever. No ways. And Janet smiled with aching cheeks as though she were a new bride and tried to deflect some attention towards Eileen-the-Understudy whose idea it had been in the first place and who had played such a magnificent, such a solid Wall last year.
And then Janet was swept away by the soft, guiding arm of Derek-Francis to meet her fiancé – her energetic whippersnapper of a Highland Jock, young Charlie who was going to sing all about coming home to bonnie Jean.
Heads turned and there was a sudden hush, not because Eileen-the-Understudy was having a coughing fit but because there was Janet Snyman standing before her man, Frank van Zyl, and they could have been brother and sister. In fact, they could have been twins. Remarkable. There was actually an intake of breath, quite simultaneous, they agreed later, when Frank held out his hand and shook Janet’s. It was as though he were reaching out through the looking-glass to touch himself. The same slim features, the same chestnut hair with the same waves. And no one had spotted that before. Had Derek meant to cast this pigeon pair, this mirror image, but Derek was as stunned as the next person. Why had they not thought of Twelfth Night. It was, what was her name, Violet – no – Viola and her brother, presumed lost at sea. Uncanny. Almost spooky. But Brigadoon it had to be. Come home to Brigadoon.
And the first rehearsal went swimmingly, on the night of Tuesday, 6 January 1976, in the peanut-butter hall where the air was as thick as syrup and humid as could be. The shriek and whine of crickets came piercingly when they threw open the doors, and the moths fluttered inside and Christmas beetles zithered about madly, and things began to fall into place. Despite the mayhem of insects and the barometric tightening of the air as thunder clouds g
athered, and despite the dark circles of sweat under armpits and oiliness of brows and the stickiness of feet in nylon stockings and pinching shoes, it all went most swimmingly.
Janet just dived into her role as though she were to Brigadoon born. Derek-Francis began by blocking the first scenes. It took an age to walk the cast through the opening number where the village woke up after a hundred years’ slumber. The director made them all lie down and then in waves of sudden wakefulness they had to stretch and yawn and peer blearily about them, as though seeing light for the first time in an age, realising, after the protracted snooze, just where they were and how they had come to be there. And just as they were trying to do it again, as Derek-Francis had shaken his head and breathlessly requested Verisimilitude folks, I want ver-i-sim-i-li-tude please, the school caretaker, a grumpy black man with a soothsayer beard and an aggressive bunch of keys, had come to ask when he might lock up for the night as it was getting late. He was quite unpleasant about it all and actually raised his voice to Derek-Francis who was very patient when they came to think about it, but some of the men got involved and the caretaker was despatched with a flea in his ear. Actually several fleas to remind him that Hey, my boy, just remember your place, okay, and that You should not try to get too white, all right. And Derek-Francis had told the men that it was fine, that there was no need to get involved and that he had said they would be done by nine-thirty and it was, in fact, already five past ten. And so they had called it a day, or a night at least. And there were cheery goodbyes, with some real yawns, and some had a fair distance to travel home but they agreed that they had made great progress even though the incident with that black had been a bit off. A bit of an intrusion. And so they stumbled from Brigadoon back to lives in Benoni and Boksburg and Brakpan and Springs and there was also a couple from Sunward Park and even a man called Nigel from the small town, Nigel.
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