The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  ‘The door must positively gliiide, Emily,’ Jeremy had said. That’s all well and good, but he’s not the one squashed in there with practically no room to manoeuvre, let alone breathe.

  The play is completely sold out – nothing like a good, juicy whodunnit to pull in the bored holidaymakers from their B&Bs on a dull, drizzly night in Branworth.

  ‘“Stay right where you are!”’ orders Vince, as this week’s villain, Jack Spencer. He flicks on the torch and trains the beam onto my face. ‘“I’m afraid you know too much,”’ he continues, pulling a gun from the inside pocket of his overcoat.

  ‘“Don’t be a fool, Jack. The police won’t buy your story. But I can help you …”’

  Vince pulls the trigger. I know the routine now: grab the corner of the desk, clutch chest with other hand, squeeze blood capsule, fall to knees, open mouth slightly as if to speak, glazed look, fall on my side, back to the audience (so they don’t see me breathing), and remember what Jeremy said: ‘Don’t overact, darling – remember, less is more.’

  But hang on, where’s the bang? The trigger clicks again. Nothing. Vince shoots me one of his customary, boggle-eyed, Frank-Spencer looks. I half expect him to twitch his shoulders and utter an ‘Hmm, Betty.’

  No good relying on him to get us out of this. He spouts his lines verbatim, but as I discovered in Miranda, throw the unexpected at him, and he clams up.

  A mega-dose of adrenaline rushes around my body, and I find myself backing away, ad-libbing like mad.

  ‘You won’t get away with this, you know. No, you won’t. No, siree! The police will be here soon. There’s no way out – unless you’d care to try the window. But the windows are double-glazed, so you won’t be able to break them … even with a chair… nope … no way …’

  My back is now pressed against the ‘lift’ door, blood trickling through my fingers onto my shirt, for no apparent reason. Vince is rooted to the spot, doubtless petrified of what I may say or do next. There’s only one thing for it …

  In a last-ditch attempt to rescue the situation, I feign prising the door open and fall in backwards, as if into the lift shaft (a black masking curtain). I then spin around once (less is more), crying ‘Aaaaaaaaaaah!’

  Abi looks at me flabbergasted from prompt corner, as I snatch one of the cast-iron stage weights and drop it to the floor with a thud, signifying my sticky end.

  A good bit of improv, I think, until it dawns on me horribly as the plot unravels, that all references to the shooting (of which there are many) have now to be changed on the hoof, and the two local am-dram enthusiasts, cast in the non-speaking roles of ambulance men, don’t get to come on stage at all.

  * * *

  Week Six: Another Op’nin’, Another Wig

  Strike a match within three feet of my head, and I will combust. Yet despite the half can of hairspray and ton of kirby grips, my mangy hairpiece keeps falling off.

  ‘Could we do away with the hairpiece altogether, Babs?’ I beg, as she spears my head again.

  ‘You’re supposed to be a nineteen-year-old virgin bride, Emily, and without it …’ she says, casting a critical eye over me, ‘well, I’m afraid there’s no nice way of putting this, you – you look more like the bride’s mother.’

  ‘Well, what about my Miranda wig?’

  Judging by Babs’s reaction, you’d think I had just suggested wearing my birthday suit and a pair of Doc Martens.

  ‘I beg your pardon? Did you say your Miranda wig?’

  I nod, smiling weakly.

  ‘You can’t possibly wear that wig! Our regulars would recognise you right away from Miranda. No, you have to look completely different. There!’ she says, standing back and studying my reflection. ‘As long as you don’t move your head around too much, it’ll stay put, and on matinée days you’ll have to keep it on in between shows.’

  It was bound to happen sooner or later – and tonight it does …

  ‘“Oh, Archie, you do love me, don’t you?”’

  ‘“Of course I do, Shirl. You’re the only girl for me.”’

  ‘“Oh, Archie!”’

  ‘“Oh, Shirl!”’

  Archie takes me in his arms and spins me around. As I come in to land, I notice a blonde, ferret-like thing sitting on his shoulder.

  ‘“I can’t – wait – until – we’re – married, darling,”’ I squeak. I know I have another line, but my concentration is broken. Unaware, Archie/Vince looks at me intently through his Coke-bottle spectacles, eyes hugely magnified, drops of perspiration glistening in the furrows of his terrified brow. I can’t think what to say. Remember what they drummed into us at drama school? If your concentration goes, stop and momentarily focus your attention on something very familiar to you, and this will jog your memory …

  ‘Oscar Charlie, got a pick-up from Station Road …’

  We look at one another gormlessly.

  ‘Oscar Charlie, are you in the vicinity?’

  I bite down hard on my lip, fighting a laugh. The Branworth taxi service is mysteriously filtering through the speakers! I ad-lib my way to the end of the scene, but try as I might to retain a sense of professionalism and carry on regardless, my dialogue is expelled in short, sharp bursts, like machine gun fire. The curtains come in, and we all fall about the floor like naughty school kids; the first of many bouts of ‘corpsing’, as it’s called.

  * * *

  Week Seven: Salad Days

  No part to learn, no technical responsibilities, just a million props to find, including four of those old-type mobile hairdryers; you know, the ones on castors, with giant hoods?

  Have been into almost every hairdresser in Branworth. They are all very trendy places with staff of an average age of twenty-three. With their brightly coloured hair, body piercings, tattoos, funky clothes, and waif-like figures, I feel about ninety-five next to them.

  ‘Do you have any old hairdryers I could borrow for a play?’ I yell over blaring rap music. ‘You know the old-fashioned type with a hood … and wheels … no?’

  My request is usually met with blank looks or mild amusement. I chicken out from asking them to display our poster and flyers. I get the feeling that neither they nor their cool clientele are likely to want to spend their Saturday night watching Timothy and Jane dancing and singing ‘Oh, Look At Me!’, accompanied by Minnie, the magic piano.

  Footsore and hairdryerless, I start to wend my way back to the theatre, wondering if it may be at all possible to adapt the whole thing to the present day. Problem is, we’re back in that frightfully nice world where gay means happy, and people go to marvellous parties and drink lashings of beer, and say things like gosh and he’s a thoroughly decent chap.

  I’m ravenous, and an illuminated Fish ’n’ Chips sign lures me up a little side street. As I’m waiting in the queue deciding whether or not to have mushy peas, reflected in the mirror, I spy a board outside the pebbledash house opposite …

  HAIR BY MADGE

  SHAMPOO & SET HALF-PRICE

  FOR PENSIONERS WEDNESDAYS

  Now that looks just the kind of place …

  ‘Yes, love?’ says the lady behind the counter, fish slice at the ready.

  ‘Sorry, gotta go,’ I say, flying out of the door. Forget jumbo sausages and mushy peas, there’s more pressing business at hand.

  * * *

  ‘If you can manage to get them downstairs, then you’re welcome to borrow them,’ says Madge, opening the stock room door. ‘Can I leave you to it?’ she says, consulting her watch. ‘My lady’s colour should have come off five minutes ago.’

  ‘Sure, thank you, and here’s the poster, and oh, I’ll drop off the tickets for Thursday night’s show tomorrow morning.’

  Isn’t life weird? Not so long ago, I was pushing a trolley through a metal tube, and now here I am, proudly propelling a dusty old hairdryer with wonky wheels through a shopping precinct. Oh, the glamour!

  * * *

  Week Eight: Round & Round The Rectory (aka Another Cringeworthy F
arce)

  ‘No, no, no, Emily! You pop up from behind the sofa after the telephone rings, not before,’ booms Jeremy’s voice from the darkness of the dress circle. ‘Now let’s go back to the top of the scene from the bishop’s entrance.’

  In an ideal world we would have rehearsed this for three weeks, ensuring that the slick co-ordination of lines and moves is imprinted on the brain. But in this drama production line, you’ve barely time to erase the previous character and plot from your memory before you’re twenty years younger than last night, and are speaking in a West Country accent as opposed to ‘Received Pronunciation’ (or ‘RP’, as it is called in Thespian Land). The art of ad-libbing is a must here, to be pulled out of the hat whenever the playwright’s words elude you.

  So, to the play itself: vicar, vicar’s wife, bishop, gardener, and ditsy maid (typecasting?). Lots of diving under beds, popping in and out of cupboards and toe-curling double-entendres like, ‘Ooh, put that away before somebody else sees it!’

  No unruly wig this week, thank God, just a maid’s cap and an Eliza-Doolittle accent.

  ‘“Good evening, bishop. May I take your mitre?”’

  ‘“Thank you, Edith. Is the vicar at home?”’

  ‘“Yes, your ’oliness. He’s in the library and is expecting you.”’

  BISHOP EXITS UPSTAGE RIGHT.

  ‘“Edith! Edith!”’ (FROM OFFSTAGE.)

  ‘“Lawks, that’s Bill, the gardener!”’

  I bob down behind the sofa.

  Silence.

  ‘Hold it! Emily! Emily!’ calls Jeremy tersely.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, peering dubiously over the top.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  I stand up, shielding my eyes from the glaring lights. ‘No. You told me not to appear until the telephone rings.’

  ‘That’s right, but Richard’s cue for the telephone ring is your line, “He must have seen me come back from town”, is it not?’

  ‘Sorry, I … I was concentrating on when to appear and clean forgot my line. Sorry,’ I mumble sheepishly.

  ‘Okay, everyone, let’s go back to the top of the scene once more, thank you!’

  Last night I dreamed I was naked on stage, it was my turn to speak, and I had absolutely no idea what play I was in. I will never pull this together by tomorrow night. There is nothing else for it: forget all that terribly useful stuff Portia drummed into us about Stanislavski. There simply isn’t time to explore the inner self. The only technique I’m interested in is survival, and if that means strategically placing bits of the script under the bed, behind the sofa and in the cupboard, then so be it.

  HOW TO SURVIVE WEEKLY REP

  by

  Emily Forsyth

  This actors’ manual is to be my project whilst waiting for my next job. The headings so far are:

  Chapter 1

  Emergency Stage Evacuation

  (procedures to be followed when you have absolutely no idea what your next line is)

  Chapter 2

  Violent Convulsions (aka ‘corpsing’)

  Chapter 3

  How to Survive Farce

  (after not enough rehearsal and avoid having a nervous breakdown)

  I will have to amend chapter three, as the procedures are not watertight, as I discovered tonight – to my cost …

  Act Two, and I am within touching distance of the finish line. A couple of pages of dialogue, in which to catch my breath after my leap over the back of the sofa, swiftly followed by energetic dive into the cupboard, to avoid being found by the vicar and his young (ahem) wife. Vince is playing the role of Reverend Pritchard and Margo, Mrs P.

  So here I am, crouched down in my usual spot, having a quick slurp of my water and a sneaky look at my script, in preparation for my final scene. My ears prick up as I hear Margo deliver my cue line – two pages early.

  Before I have time to shift my brain into gear, the cupboard door is flung open and I am revealed, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. In one hand I am clutching my script, and a bottle of Evian in the other; but worse than this, my skirt is hitched up over my knees and my nasty pop-sock secret is out. I rise slowly, staring into the black void, frantically scanning my memory for my line – nothing. My improvisation skills too let me down, as I find myself saying, ‘I’ll just pop upstairs ma’am and see if her ladyship requires anything.’

  ‘Her – ladyship?’ enquires Margo, eyes wide, a slight tremor in her voice.

  ‘Yes, her ladyship, your mother … who has been upstairs … bedridden these ten years since,’ I reply, tripping up the stairs. ‘God love ’er.’

  ‘But we require you to pour the tea,’ says Margo firmly, grabbing the hem of my skirt through the spindles. ‘Nowww.’

  ‘Begging your par-don, ma’am,’ I continue, wrenching myself free, ‘but I shan’t be a moment.’ And I disappear out of sight, onto ‘the landing’.

  ‘Pssst! Abi!’ I hiss, waving my arms in the direction of prompt corner.

  Abi looks up, removes her cans and says in a loud whisper, ‘What are you doing up there? Get back on stage.’

  ‘What’s my line?’ I mouth exaggeratedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s – my – line?’

  ‘How should I know?’ she replies, frantically flicking through her script. ‘You’re in a different play to the rest of us.’

  Part of me is tempted to climb down the backstage scaffolding and retreat to my dressing room, leaving my fellow actors to it. After all, this is Margo’s fault for skipping two pages of dialogue in the first place. But then Portia’s words ring out in my head: ‘Acting is all about teamwork and being a supportive company member.’

  With this in mind, I come to Vince and Margo’s rescue by hysterically screaming an improvised exit line: ‘Lawks! Sir, Madam, come upstairs right away! Her ladyship is … DEAD!’

  They scuttle upstairs and we huddle together on the tiny ‘landing’ until Abi has no alternative but to bring the curtain down.

  * * *

  I emerge from the stage door and thread my way through the hordes of eager autograph hunters waiting for Margo. Someone taps me gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, please will you sign our programme?’

  I turn forty-five degrees and promptly burst into tears, as Wendy, Céline, Faye, and Rachel, arms outstretched, shroud me in a group hug.

  ‘Hey, don’t cry,’ says Wendy, wiping my cheeks with her thumb. ‘It was supposed to be a nice surprise.’

  ‘Oh, it is, believe me,’ I blub, my Poundland mascara smudging the collar of Céline’s white Chanel blazer. ‘It’s just the relief of seeing your familiar faces. It’s all been too Mr Bean for words. I’ve aged about twenty years in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Rubbish. You have lost weight, though,’ says Wendy, laying a gentle hand on my arm.

  ‘You were so hilarious as the maid,’ chips in Céline. (She has this charming way of emphasising the ‘h’ of English words.)

  I flinch. ‘I never believed those people who said the stress some actors experience during performance is the equivalent of a small car crash – until tonight. Tonight, let me tell you, I felt like I was in a multiple pile-up on the M25. Anyway, it’s over and you’re here. Time to celebrate,’ I say, slotting my arms through theirs. ‘Let me buy us all a drink. I’m afraid there are no decent wine bars in this town, just The Lobster Pot. Their house white isn’t bad though.’

  ‘I know a place overlooking the sea that stays open all night, where we can drink champagne from crystal flutes, and eat smoked salmon by candlelight,’ says Wendy.

  I look at her, puzzled.

  ‘Ta-raa!’ She beams as she produces a cool box from behind her back. ‘Come on. We reserved a bench on the prom.’

  * * *

  ‘Ahem! I’d like to propose a toast,’ I announce, rising unsteadily to my sandy feet, the bubbles in my glass fizzing. ‘Be we in Branworth or Bermuda, may our friendship last for ever!’

  Overcome with emoti
on, exhaustion, and alcohol, I burst into tears again.

  ‘I know we don’t see one another much these days, but please don’t ever think I’ve forgotten you. The last few months have changed me, and have made me truly appreciate having old friends like you in my life.’

  ‘Less of the old, eh?’ says Wendy, placing her arm around me. ‘But you’re happy you made the move, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sure. It’s not easy at times, scary even, but I’m learning that sometimes throwing yourself into unfamiliar situations can lead you somewhere unexpected, somewhere you never thought of going.’

  ‘Like?’ asks Rachel.

  ‘Some place where you learn surprising new things about yourself, and find yourself opening up to new challenges.’

  ‘Like?’ repeats Rachel.

  ‘Like, I can rustle up a mean pasta sauce now, I can speak a bit of Italian, and I can make a palm tree out of balsa wood, should you ever need one for your next Hawaiian fancy dress party.’

  ‘And any Daniel Craigs or George Clooneys we should know about?’ asks Wendy, refilling our glasses, a cheeky glint in her eye.

  ‘Nope. I wouldn’t go out with an actor anyway.’

  ‘Okay. Any Gino D’Acampos then?’

  I look at them nonplussed.

  ‘Knew it!’ she squeals, throwing her hand up in the air and spilling her champagne.

  ‘Don’t get excited. He’s just a friend,’ I say defensively. ‘We haven’t exchanged phone numbers or … anything. He teaches me Italian, that’s all. Besides, I’m not the girl I was. I actually like being on my own and don’t need a man in my life. Now, enough of me. What about you and Randy, the Action Man?’

  ‘Dating disaster.’

  ‘Oh, why can’t love be like in the movies?’ says Céline longingly. ‘You don’t know just how lucky you are, Rachel – to have met and married the man of your dreams so young.’