by Jane Lambert
At the risk of appearing a diva, when exactly am I to learn my lines, let alone eat, sleep, wash my smalls? I raise my hand gingerly.
‘And so to our first play, Miranda,’ says Jeremy, pulling a file from his bag. ‘Emily, our latest recruit, is to play our mischievous mermaid.’
Jeremy motions for me to stand up. All eyes swivel in my direction. I slowly lower my arm, tugging at my recently cropped hair, wishing it would magically grow back.
It’s obvious what they are all thinking, and I want to say, I know, I know I’m at least twenty years too old for the part, but is it my fault their first choice got a last-minute offer to play Liesl in The Sound of Music?
* * *
‘This isn’t Phantom of the Opera,’ grumbles Babs that afternoon at my wardrobe fitting. ‘We simply don’t have the budget for wigs. Why Jeremy cast you, I have no idea. He should have consulted me first.’
I open my mouth to speak but think better of it.
A long, blonde wig is eventually found scrunched up in a Tesco carrier bag from a 2001 production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and after a gentle soak in some Dreft, it is grudgingly met with Babs’s approval.
* * *
My very first scene is with Charles, the chauffeur, who has to carry me on stage and around the room, whilst I marvel at the furnishings and paintings.
According to the script, Charles is broad and tough-looking, so don’t ask me why five-foot-five Vincent Crumb has been cast in this role. Vince is as camp as Rio Carnival and skinny as a rake. I may not be Victoria Beckham, but the way he wobbles and wheezes as he carts me around, makes me feel less like a delicate mermaid, and more like a beached whale.
‘We haven’t time to spend on this now, so please can you work on this scene in your own time?’ says Jeremy, clutching his forehead. ‘Right, moving on …’
* * *
Like Sir Ian and Dame Judi, I used to bemoan the demise of weekly repertory, where fledgling actors like me could hone their ‘craft’ (to use luvvy-speak). Why, oh why is this wonderful institution being allowed to disappear? This will kill British theatre, I thought. But that was before the reality of fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants rep kicked in …
* * *
Miranda – Opening Night
‘Everyone got their personal props?’ calls Abi, standing in the doorway, scanning her clipboard.
‘I’ve lost a glove!’
‘Anyone got any hairspray?’
‘Can you call Babs? A button’s just come off my jacket.’
‘Has anyone seen my cigarette holder?’
Excited chatter from the auditorium blares through the speakers. Every seat sold. I feel sick.
During the dress rehearsal this afternoon I ‘dried’ three times, and my wig got caught in the zip of my tail during a quick scene change.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, just like Faye taught me to, in an attempt to steady my frazzled nerves. I breathe in the sweet perfume of the two bouquets of flowers on my dressing table: freesias from Mum and Dad, and pink roses from Francesco. I glance at the card and smile a private smile.
In bocca al lupo, cara! Fx
Mamma mia, if he could see me now, I think as I stare at the Donatella Versace lookalike in the mirror.
‘Act One beginners, please.’
I’m not on for nine pages, but set off early to allow myself time to waddle down to prompt corner in my fishtail. I also need to have a practice-run in the wheelchair, which only materialised half an hour ago.
I scoot up and down the backstage area, heart going da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.
‘We have clearance,’ announces Mark, giving the thumbs-up. ‘Break a leg, everyone!’
The lights go down, and the curtain goes up on Act One, Scene One.
‘Fade music. Cue telephone … go!’ whispers Abi into her mic.
Limbering up stage left is Betty, the maid, played by Tamara, an actress fresh out of drama school. The green cue light is illuminated, and with a little skip and a jump, she takes to the stage.
Ten minutes! Ten minutes of our precious rehearsal time was spent discussing ‘motive’ and which room Betty’s in when the telephone rings.
‘As it’s late afternoon, I feel she’s in the kitchen putting away the tea things, or maybe preparing the vegetables for dinner. Which scenario do you prefer, Jeremy?’ she’d said. ‘I could even be wiping my hands on my apron as I enter.’
My jaw had tightened. Yeah, yeah, whatever, sweetheart. This is weekly rep, remember, not the bloody National Theatre. Just get on with it. How I wish Jeremy would put her in her place.
Despite being the youngest member of the company, Tamara doesn’t have to carry out ASM duties. She’s the daughter of the well-known playwright and director, Maurice de Fresnes, and is therefore leapfrogging her way up the theatrical ladder.
‘I know, I know she can be rather tricky,’ Jeremy had said, taking me aside on one particularly bad rehearsal day. ‘But what you have to remember is that she was in an award-winning short film at last year’s Lithuanian Film Festival. And like it or not, we are lucky to have her as she’s being mooted as the next Carey Mulligan.’
So, this is her licence to get away with murder; she’s either having a tantrum, on the verge of tears, doing incessant warm-ups, or prancing about, practising her red-carpet smile.
Vince swigs water from one of the bottles on the props table, his eyes darting about nervously.
The green light comes on. Knees bent, he scoops me up into his bony arms, and we veer onto the shaky set of the doctor’s Bloomsbury flat.
Under the glare of the lights, it’s as if I am watching someone who looks and sounds like me moving around the stage and saying the lines.
‘“Am I heavy?”’
‘“No, Miss … quite the contrary.”’
‘“You look so very strong.”’
‘“Do I, Miss?”’
‘“What wonderful muscles!”’ (Snigger from the stalls.)
‘“I do a bit of amateur boxing, Miss,”’ groans Vince as he chucks me onto the sofa, one page early, which means I have no alternative but to cut my line, “Carry me round the room, will you, Charles?”
Civic Theatre stalwart, Vanessa Morrell, playing Clare, the doctor’s wife, swans on upstage right, saying, ‘“You can put Miss Trewella down, Cha…”’ and glowers in my direction.
I am dumped in the offstage darkness after my first scene, and fumble my way to the quick-change area, where Babs is standing by with my long dress and pearls, in preparation for Act Two, Scene One.
‘Breathe in,’ she commands through a mouthful of safety pins, yanking the waistband of the tail tighter around my midriff.
Meanwhile, Rocky Balboa is pacing up and down stage right, in preparation for round two …
If adrenaline gives a person the superhuman strength to lift a car, then please God, can it not do the same for Vince?
‘“Ah, here she is. Put Miss Trewella on the settee, Charles.”’ And my prayer is answered.
Our first-night nerves gradually vanish as Doctor Theatre works his magic, shifting the action up a gear, giving the lines punchiness and pace.
We are now just one scene away from the interval, and my favourite bit of the whole play, where I have the stage all to myself – the pivotal moment, where the audience realises for the first time that Miranda is not an invalid after all …
I flop into the wheelchair; Babs fusses with the ribbon of my négligée, and the jewelled clasp in my hair, then tucks the tartan blanket tightly around my legs and under my feet, so the tail doesn’t poke out.
Margo, playing the nurse (looking for all the world like Barbara Windsor in Carry On Doctor), pushes me on stage.
‘“Why did you never get married, Nurse Cary?”’
‘“I never wanted to,”’ she replies, her gin-infused breath wafting over me.
‘“Don’t you find men attractive?”’
‘“No … nor they me … which makes it easier.”’
‘I’d take you out any night of the week, sweetheart!’ comes a voice from the gods. Several guffaws echo around the auditorium.
Coquettishly batting her false eyelashes, Margo cries, ‘See you in the bar afterwards, darling!’ which prompts several wolf-whistles.
‘“I love men.”’ I yell this line, determined to get us back on track. Margo thumps the back of the chair and eventually says, ‘Well, well …’ This is not in the script, and therefore slightly worrying. She then proceeds to cut the next page of dialogue.
The lights slowly fade and the set is bathed in greeny-blue light. Thunder rolls, lightning flashes, the rain lashes against the windowpanes, and the haunting wisps of ‘Fingal’s Cave’ by Mendelssohn drift through the air. Cellos and bassoons gather momentum; Miranda, trance-like, removes her négligée (bit of a barney with Jeremy and Babs about this stage direction, due to my refusal to bare my assets to an audience of elderly holidaymakers – or any holidaymakers for that matter. Two large shells, strategically super-glued to flesh-coloured, strapless bra save the day). She lets down her flowing locks and flicks her scaly tail high into the air. Lightning, thunder, gasps from the audience, curtains, wild applause. This is what is supposed to happen …
‘“Goodnight. Turn on the wireless, will you; and switch off the lights as you go out.”’
‘“See you in the morning.”’
‘“Don’t forget my scallops.”’
“‘There are just as good fish in the sea as ever… Goodnight.’”
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
Why won’t the bloody thing move?
MIRANDA MANIPULATES HER CHAIR OVER TO THE FRENCH WINDOW.
I push the wheels with all my might, but … NOTHING. I lean forward … if I could just reach the door handle … oops … nearly. The chair rocks back and forth. Nervous whispers come from the auditorium.
‘Release the brake!’ hisses Abi from the wings. Aha! How stupid of me. I grab the lever and flick it to the down position; the chair starts to roll backwards on the raked stage, towards the orchestra pit. The audience holds its collective breath as I push the wheels forward with all my might and hurtle towards the French windows, crashing into the small table, with the goldfish bowl on it.
MIRANDA LOOSENS HER HAIR SO THAT IT CASCADES DOWN OVER HER SHOULDERS.
My trembling hand, now slippy with sweat, can’t get the hair clip to undo. I tug at it, and the wig moves precariously to the side, so decide to abandon that bit of business.
I’m trapped, unable to move, the négligée and blanket now tangled up in the wheels.
Please bring the tabs in and end the agony. Pleeeease.
The curtains come in slowly, jerkily, and our first-night audience is left at the interval, doubtless believing that Miranda is a horror story, with the central character bearing a scary resemblance to Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho.
* * *
Just as we are getting into our stride, the run reaches its end and it’s on to play two.
Thank the Lord I haven’t a part in this one, so can relax a little and focus on finding props and painting the set.
But then at the dress rehearsal, Jeremy drops a bombshell:
‘Darling,’ he says in a low voice as he places a suspiciously reassuring arm round my shoulders. ‘We have a bit of a – situation on our hands …’
‘What kind of a – “situation”?’ I ask tentatively.
‘It’s nothing to worry about …’
Why do I get the feeling he’s lying?
‘Our sister theatre in Blackpool is having serious technical problems with some new sound equipment. The producer’s having a hissy fit and is demanding that Richard be there tomorrow for the opening night, and – well, our budget doesn’t stretch to a freelance sound engineer, soooo, as the only spare member of the stage management team, the duty falls to you, my sweet.’
My stomach plummets like a drop tower. He CANNOT be serious.
‘Oh, Jeremy, please let’s get one thing straight,’ I say with pleading eyes. ‘I may be a dab hand at splashing a bit of paint around, or knocking a couple of bits of wood together, or finding props for you, but operating a sound desk? I can’t even operate my DVD player properly.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says with feigned conviction. ‘You can shadow Richard tonight, and the systems here are all manual, not a computer in sight, so you see, you’ll be fine, trust me. Okay, everyone, let’s start from where we left off – the top of Act Two, please!’
I now know what ASM really stands for: A Stupid Mug.
* * *
Ahoy there! A Farce (What an understatement.)
Here I am in a tiny, hot, soundproof box at the back of the auditorium. It’s airless, rank with sweat (where’s a Jo Malone scented candle when you need one?) and has a deck of dials and switches that reminds me of the cockpit of a 747.
The door opens and Mark’s head peers round.
‘Good luck!’ he says, giving me the thumbs-up.
‘House lights, down. Cue music … go!’ crackles Abi’s voice through my headphones (or ‘cans’, as the techies call them). My quivering finger depresses the switch, and the theme music from Desert Island Discs swells the theatre.
‘Fade music. Sound cue one … go!’ cuts in Abi’s voice again. The tinny sound of rolling waves and the screech of gulls sifts through the speakers, setting the scene. Phew. I wind the reel-to-reel tape to the next red marker. There are several pages of dialogue before my next cue, so daring to relax a little, I take a swig of water and look down onto the set and my, dare I say, impressive handiwork. The balsa wood palm trees look surprisingly realistic (as long as no one leans against them), although my last-minute brainwave of dressing the stage with real coconuts (2 for 1 at Morrisons) is proving to be a bit of a safety hazard.
The play is a three-hander, and as the only female in the cast, Margo is in her element, playing a femme fatale, shipwrecked on a desert island with her husband and her lover. This week she is wearing a skimpy, low-cut, raggedy tunic, held together with angel breath. Her character is supposed to be in her twenties, but I’m learning that being top of the bill here has its perks – other than financial – one of them being you get to choose your own parts and costumes.
‘Cue music … go!’ calls Abi. ‘Well done, Emily, you made it to the interval. Fifteen minutes, please.’
Blimey, maybe I’m not such a technophobe after all. Who knows, if this acting lark doesn’t work out, a career as a sound engineer might not be beyond the realms of possibility.
There is a knock at the door and Ellis enters, carrying a mug of tea and a Kit Kat.
‘Hey, well done, you! Richard had better watch out – we have a budding sound engineer in our midst.’
‘Please don’t tempt fate.’ I smile through my slug of tea.
‘Just do exactly what you did in the first half and you’re home and dry.’ He winks reassuringly, shutting the door behind him.
The three bells ring out.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats as this evening’s performance of Ahoy There! will continue in two minutes. Two minutes please.’
* * *
Only three more sound cues to go until we reach the end of the play. Whey hey! I can almost taste that glass of chilled Sauvignon waiting for me at the bar.
‘“Rupert, I think I can see something in the distance. Could it be … could it be a ship?”’
I slowly wind the tape forward manually, in preparation for the ship’s siren, two pages of dialogue hence. Hmm. Strange. Can’t see the marker. Rewind the tape using the switch this time, and look again. No red marker. Maybe I didn’t wind it on far enough. I press the fast-forward switch. Whirr. Nothing. I press rewind. Whirr. Nothing.
I’ve found a red marker on the tape but which sound effect is it?
‘Cue ship’s siren … go!’ instructs Abi. Heart knocking against my chest, I depress the switch, keeping everything crossed … an
d the screech of monkeys echoes around the auditorium.
‘“Rupert, Geoffrey, it is a ship!”’
‘“We have one flare left, thank God. I’ll just go and set it alight. They are bound to see us,”’ says Rupert, exiting stage right.
The budget and fire regulations won’t allow for pyrotechnics, so Rupert has to exit stage right, cover his face in soot as the flare sound effect is being played, then reappear on stage. Terror floods through my veins. It’s like watching a train about to crash in slow motion, and not being able to do a thing about it.
‘Cue flare … go!’ says Abi, the tiniest hint of exasperation in her usually super-cool voice.
Nothing.
‘Cue flare … go!’
Nothing.
‘What was that noise?’ ad-libs Margo, cupping her hand to her ear.
‘What noise?’
‘I think I heard the flare.’
‘Flare?’
‘The-one-Rupert-set-alight-just-now-over-yonder,’ she says loudly, with a dramatic gesture.
Rupert eventually stumbles back onto the stage, mouthing something into the wings. The three actors look at one another with fear in their eyes.
When will this end? After what seems an age, they start jumping up and down half-heartedly, calling, ‘“Ahoy there!”’
‘Cue ship’s siren … go!’
Silence.
Monday night’s punters are party to the rarely performed, alternative ending of Ahoy There, where the threesome is marooned for ever. And the face blackening? Well, that has some deep, symbolic meaning, which I haven’t quite worked out as yet.
* * *
Week Five: Murder on the Tenth Floor – A Thriller
This week I’m murdered in the first half of the play, thank God. A few lines at the beginning, followed by twenty-five minutes’ dead acting, until the interval. During the break, I have to change into my ‘blacks’ and take up the stage management duty of chief lift operator.
The play is set in a multi-storey office block. The ‘lift’ is a wooden, sliding door, painted silver. I have to squeeze in behind the scenery wall before the start of the second half, and wait for the red cue light to turn green. At Detective Inspector Lord and Sergeant Cooper’s entrance, the light comes on, and I pull the string attached to the top of the door as smoothly as I can. Then I’m stuck there until they exit, almost at the end of the play.