Our Little Cruelties

by Liz Nugent

  Through Luke, I had built up enough contacts in TV and radio and with music producers. I couldn’t say which of my family members was more difficult to handle. We were offered great money at one stage to take part in a documentary about the two of them, but they were both horrified at the thought of it. They barely tolerated each other.

  I was able to get Mum lots of voice-over work and quite a few radio dramas, and that was a good income for her, but by 2007 she had hardly worked in a year. Luckily Dad’s pension plan was watertight so she didn’t need to rely on any of her own income to put food on the table. Her showband singing was now wildly out of fashion and no matter how much dieting, self-tanning or make-up she did, she couldn’t disguise the fact that she was now in her seventh decade and her once-strong voice was beginning to crack. When the work had dried up, her voice had too, but mostly because she gave up doing her daily vocal exercises at the piano which had been the soundtrack to our childhood. She and her actor friends would get together and bitch about their employed friends, but if one of them got a job, that person would then become the subject of the bitching. Mum knew she wasn’t fully accepted as an actor by her gang as she had made her name as a singer first. There weren’t many acting roles for older women and the competition and jealousy between them was savage.

  When the call came about the try-out, Mum was at first outraged that someone with her extensive experience and ability was being asked to audition. ‘Everyone knows me!’ she declared. I persuaded her that the English director wouldn’t necessarily know her work and that she should go along and give it her best shot. She told none of her pals, because the humiliation of not getting the part would be too much, but when she turned up, they were there, all going for the same job.

  Mum said the role specified a character in her ‘early seventies’. Mum was sixty-one. She was the youngest auditionee and felt it a mixed blessing. She might have the advantage because her energy levels would be greater than those of her competition, but on the other hand she was afraid if she played a crone she would be typecast for the rest of her life. Sixty-one was by no means old, and I assumed they’d never give her the part exactly because she was so fit and healthy-looking. But I hadn’t reckoned on Mum’s desperation to get back on the stage and to hear the applause.

  She rang me afterwards and said the audition had gone well and she was optimistic. Mum was always optimistic about work because she thought she was more deserving than everyone else and would then be bitterly disappointed when she didn’t get the part.

  On this occasion, however, she got the part. It had been a long time since I’d seen her happy and excited about something. It turned out it was the lead role in a new play by an established playwright. She had only seen part of the script because it was still in development, but she insisted on taking us all out to dinner in the Trocadero to celebrate; even Luke, who she more or less ignored these days. Robert, the maître d’, greeted us all by name, as usual remembering my dad’s name and recalling us all being there together when we were teenagers. Mum was delighted by the attention. She felt she was back on the scene at last.

  Will arrived with his twenty-something girlfriend, Hilary, herself an aspiring but so far unemployed actress. Luke arrived late and drunk and morose, and spent the evening folding his napkin into smaller and smaller pieces, while skulling wine into his maw as fast as it could be poured.

  Will had put Mum into two of his films, and although they were minor roles, she was always treated like royalty on set with a big trailer, while the crew fawned over her because she was the producer’s mother. She used the fact of this new play to tell Will that he needed to commission a screenwriter to come up with a story about a middle-aged woman, since clearly it was fashionable now that the Abbey were doing it and Helen Mirren had just won an Oscar for The Queen. Will promised to think about it and then Hilary ruined things by saying she could play Mum’s granddaughter. I think Will kicked her under the table because she gave a gasp. Luke laughed. ‘Or …’ he said, slurring, ‘you could play my loving mother, but you’d probably need years of rehearsal for that, wouldn’t you, Mum?’ There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she snapped at him. ‘I don’t know why you bothered coming.’

  ‘Oh, I thought this was a family dinner, was I wrong? Maybe I’m not really a part of this family. It would suit everyone, wouldn’t it?’

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘Luke, relax, it’s fine, nobody’s attacking you. We’re just here to celebrate Mum’s good news, okay?’

  I was still managing Luke. Some American rapper had done a remix of one of his earlier hits, one that he had written himself, and it had been a huge success over there. Royalties were coming in again and Luke was back on the talk-show circuit in Britain and Ireland, with tentative offers to record from studios in America. He performed well in front of cameras, recalling his glory days, if I could keep him sober until the interview was over. Luke and Mum were more alike than either of them would ever admit. Two has-beens clawing at the dregs of their earlier successes.

  Hilary was crimson with embarrassment. Will did nothing to reassure her. He moved the bottle of wine away from Luke’s glass. Luke was about to react when two women approached our table and asked if they could take a photo with him. Luke immediately morphed into his pop-star persona and stepped out of the booth to oblige the ladies. Mum contained her jealousy. Altogether, it was a failure of an evening. Luke never came back to the table.

  Two months later, I was sent the theatre script for Mum. The cover note said there had been significant rewrites and a redefining of roles. It was a three-hander play with the other two actors doubling up and playing multiple roles while Mum would be on stage for the entire performance. Thankfully, it was one act with an expected duration of ninety minutes, but it was still a pretty demanding role. I understood why they’d given the lead to the youngest auditionee. I skimmed the first few pages. The character was light, funny and charming. Mum could play to her strengths. Rehearsals were to begin the next day.

  That night, Mum rang me. ‘I don’t want to do the play. You have to get me out of it.’ I was shocked. A lead role on the stage of our national theatre would be the pinnacle of most actors’ careers.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I … I don’t like the director.’

  ‘But you only met him on the day of the audition. You said he was kind. Did you meet him again? Did he say something to you?’

  ‘No. It’s … I don’t know, I just don’t want to work with him.’

  ‘Mum, you’ve only met him once, you can’t judge him on that.’

  ‘Look, it’s not just him, I don’t like the other actors. They’re younger than me, they’re going to be patronizing, making sure I have a chair and running to get me coffee as if I’m not able to myself.’

  ‘I’m perfectly sure they’ll be happy to let you get your own coffee.’

  ‘It’s the Abbey, I don’t like the atmosphere. I feel like the place is haunted by dead actors, judging me.’

  ‘What?’ This was unusual. Mum had been excited about the part, and she had just come up with three nonsensical excuses not to do it.

  ‘So, you seriously want me to ring the Abbey and tell them you no longer want the part that is due to start rehearsal tomorrow, to break a contract that’s already been signed? You realize this is career suicide? You know we won’t be able to keep this quiet?’

  ‘You can make up something. Cancer?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’

  ‘Are you nervous about it?’

  ‘Of course not, I’ve been performing since I was sixteen.’

  ‘Look, if you pull out of this role, people will assume you are seriously ill. Are you prepared to go into hiding for the next three months? What is going on? You were desperate to get this part.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was small, childlike. ‘Did you read the script?’

  ‘I read the beginning, it seem
ed like a fun part.’

  ‘It’s not a fun part, it’s a horrible part. She has all these awful things happen to her.’

  ‘Okay, but you’re an actor, right? Isn’t that what the job is?’

  ‘Oh God, I have to do it, don’t I?’

  I needed my 18 per cent of her fee. I had negotiated to get her more money, had promised she could generate media interest, that she could get bums on seats. Whatever her problem was with the show, she had to get over it.

  ‘Yes, Mum, you have to do it.’

  I worried that she would deliberately act badly or misbehave with cast and crew to get herself fired, but her lifelong professionalism wouldn’t allow her to do that. I rang my contact in the Abbey a week later to casually ask how things were going, to be told that everyone loved Mum, that she was playing a blinder, that she was brilliant in rehearsals. It put my mind at ease. Whatever was up with her had passed. Maybe it was nerves after all, or the fear of ageing.

  She cancelled Sunday lunches for the rehearsal period. Will called me: ‘Is Mum all right?’

  I didn’t want to tell him she’d had a crisis of confidence and I’d pushed her into doing the show. Will resented the fact I was Mum’s agent as well as Luke’s and made constant digs about how I’d exploited my family to make a living, always referring to my house as Luke’s house. I’d owned it for nearly seven years now and I’d let Will stay there when Susan kicked him out.

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. Why?’

  ‘She told me not to come and see her show.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said she’s terrible in it and she doesn’t want any of us to see it.’

  ‘She is being a bit weird about it, but the Abbey are happy with her. I spoke to them last week.’

  ‘Well, she’s not happy and you’re her agent. Sort it out.’ He hung up. Will was always Mummy’s boy. They were close. Will could do no wrong in her eyes. She idolized him. And he thought she was the perfect mother. To him, she was.

  I pulled the script out of my desk and read it through properly. Yes, the play took a dark turn after the first third when Mum’s character was raped by her daughter’s charming boyfriend, but the rape scene wasn’t dramatized, it emerged from the dialogue after a storm scene outside a country farmhouse. It wasn’t as if she’d have to simulate being raped. And there was a resolution, in that she murdered the rapist, and mother and daughter buried the body, so justice, although savage, prevailed at the end. It was a brilliant role and a strikingly well-written play. It skewered society’s attitude to sex, motherhood and ageing in a way I’d never seen before. And it would be great for Mum’s career to be seen in this kind of role. I wondered if Will might consider a film version of it. I sent him the script with a note suggesting this could be a great film with a starring role for Mum.

  He emailed me a few days later and said the script wasn’t something he was interested in and sarcastically congratulated me on trying to squeeze another few quid out of Mum.

  Despite not being invited by her, Will and I went to Mum’s opening night. As a film producer, Will automatically got an invite. Perhaps the playwright had the same thoughts as I did regarding its suitability for a screen adaptation. Luke said he had something else on, although that was unlikely. He never saw it.

  Mum was electrifyingly good. I had been vaguely embarrassed by her showband singing and her stint on a bad soap opera, I had cringed at her panto performances, but in this play I saw a side to my mother I had never seen before. I fully believed she was the character and forgot she was my mum. The post-rape scenes were devastating. Tears filled my eyes as I saw her transform from a jovial widow into a destroyed and broken creature, and then resurrect herself into a vengeful, angry warrior. The other two actors were great too, but it was Mum’s show. Everything revolved around her character. As the lights went down on the final scene, the audience stood as one and clapped for a full five minutes. It was touching to see Mum’s tears of gratitude. And, I thought to myself, this is a game changer for her career. Surely Will would see her capability now? He said nothing until we made our way out to the theatre bar.

  ‘She was something else, wasn’t she?’ I said, my voice still quaking with emotion.

  ‘Yeah, brilliant. Look, I’ve got a headache, not feeling the best, I think I have to head straight home –’

  ‘Hang on, you’re not going to wait to congratulate her? For fuck’s sake, Will, she just gave the performance of her life, you need to tell her.’

  He was already heading for the exit. ‘She told me not to come. She doesn’t know I was here. I’ll call her tomorrow,’ he said as he almost ran down the stairs.

  The other two actors emerged from the backstage area and there were cheers and claps on the back for them, but no sign of Mum. Usually she was first out of the traps on an opening night, looking for adulation and champagne, but on this night, when she deserved it, she didn’t come out at all. The stage doorman told me she’d gone home on her own in a taxi.

  I reasoned that she was overwhelmed, and probably exhausted, but I couldn’t let the night go without letting her know how incredible she was. I jumped into a taxi and went to her house.

  I gave the standard family knock before I let myself in with my key. I found her sitting in her armchair, sipping a large glass of brandy.

  ‘Mum! Are you okay? You were amazing. Why didn’t you stay around afterwards? Everyone is going nuts over you. You were incredible.’ I almost hugged her, but she didn’t smile or laugh or accept the congratulations.

  ‘All my life, I’ve been performing, posturing, entertaining, and now I know that none of it was authentic. None of it mattered a damn. It’s quite a thing to discover you’ve been faking it for forty-five years.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s never too late,’ I said. I held her hand but found it was trembling.

  ‘I just don’t know if I can do that every night.’ She was booked for a six-week run.

  ‘Of course you can. You’re a trouper. Dad always said it.’ I don’t know why I mentioned him. We never talked about him.

  ‘I miss him so much,’ she said.

  ‘Then do the show for him. He’d be proud.’

  I stayed the night that night in my old bedroom. Mum did the play for the full six-week run. She got rave reviews in all the media. The play subsequently toured Ireland, returned to the Abbey for a second run the following year and then went to the West End in London for six months. She put her foot down then and refused to play the part any longer even though there was an offer from Broadway. I begged her to think about it, but she had had enough. The role was recast and opened in New York to mediocre reviews and small houses before being pulled altogether in the second month.

  It was all good for me though. Actors defected from their agents and asked me to represent them, crediting me with turning around my mother’s career, when the truth is that some casting intern at the Abbey had spotted Mum’s potential.

  Of course, when Will heard that other TV and film production companies were courting Mum for big roles, he capitulated and had her cast in a new drama series and in two films. I wasn’t surprised when he tried to get the production accountant to cut me out of the deal and negotiate directly with Mum. She told me and I hit the roof. She ordered Will to cut me in for my percentage.

  Then the recession hit. Two of the productions were cancelled. Will said nobody would take a risk on investing in an Irish production. Even though it meant lean times for me, and less work for Mum, I was delighted to see Will struggle. By now, I had an almost mortgage-free home and no family to support. Will had put stupid money into property deals and shares. He had to let a number of staff go and pay support to Susan for Daisy. There was another reason for never getting that DNA test. I loved Daisy but I didn’t need the financial burden of her upbringing.

  37

  2015

  At Susan’s insistence, I told nobody about my relationship with her, if you could call it that. I was forced to a
ccept her terms if I was to have any part in her life. She kept me at arm’s length. I tried to persuade her we should go public, but she said it would hit the tabloids, horrify her dying mom and would disturb Daisy.

  Daisy was already disturbed. She complained bitterly about her parents and how they disapproved of all her lifestyle choices. She would move out of Susan’s house for short periods of time but boomerang back when life got too much. Luke told me she was a drug user and I had tried to talk to her about it, but she denied everything. Daisy was cutting herself. I noticed scars on her arms and Susan confirmed my suspicions. Her weight ballooned.

  Daisy mostly sat in her room playing her guitar, writing songs about people who had committed suicide or died of drug overdoses. She had a sweet voice, but her subject matter was grim and depressing. She had been to a number of therapists. Susan, in an echo of my mother, said, ‘She obviously gets it from your side of the family,’ which brought up the whole issue of Daisy’s paternity. Susan finally admitted that she didn’t know: Daisy’s father could be Will or me. We agreed it would do no good for Daisy to find out even if Will weren’t her father. I agreed not to get a DNA test and didn’t tell Susan I had already ruled it out many years previously.

  Susan and I negotiated our relationship carefully. We went away for weekends together, on separate flights on separate days. I only ever stayed in her house when Daisy was elsewhere, and if she stayed in mine, she parked in a lane two streets away and came in the back gate. Our assignations were always planned in advance. I wanted Susan for herself, not to spite Will or to stave off loneliness. I had always managed on my own, but I loved her. It was as simple as that. When I was with her, I became a better person. She had taught me to be financially generous and, though it felt uncomfortable and didn’t come naturally, I saw the benefits of it. I accepted my role in her life. I realized it didn’t matter if nobody else knew about our relationship, as long as we did.