Sweet Sorrow(109)

And on the Thursday night at seven p.m., after singing rounds and speaking tongue-twisters, dressed in pale grey and powder blue like stylish ghosts, we all gathered on the lawn behind the stage for Ivor’s final big speech, variations on the theme of pulling together, listening to each other, the necessity of going for it.

‘This language, these words’ – this in his religious-experience voice – ‘these are the greatest words you’ll ever speak out loud, by the greatest poet the world has ever known. So relish them. And for goodness’ sake’ – contrived gameshow chuckle – ‘enjoy yourselves!’ There was a group hug. Break a leg! Not literally! We went to wait for our call, the boys and girls, getting ready in separate tents until, at half past seven …

‘Beginners to the stage, please! Beginners’ call.’

I put on the spectacles that transformed me, magically, into Benvolio. On the way, I found Fran pacing, eyes screwed up tight, arms to the side, flicking out her fingers as she muttered to herself.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

‘Can I talk to you or are you in the zone?’

‘Yeah, the completely-shitting-myself zone.’

‘Don’t shit yourself.’

‘You see! Suddenly everyone’s got notes. Listen …’ On the other side of the set, we could hear the murmur of voices, the bounce of planks on scaffolding.

‘Your mum and dad here?’

‘Uh-huh. Mum’s coming every night.’

‘She’s proud.’

‘Weird.’

‘Not weird. You’re going to be incredible.’

‘Thank you. You too. What do you think of this make-up?’ Her face had a powdery sheen, the tawny brown of old ladies’ tights. ‘Polly did it. I look like a mannequin in Debenhams.’

‘But under the lights …’

‘Yes, that’s what she said, then she put these two red dots in the corners of my eyes. Makes them look bigger, she said, but it looks like I’ve got a stye, a pair of styes. Conjunctivitis!’

‘Stay calm.’

‘Look!’ She blotted at her damp forehead with the back of her hand. ‘It’s coming off in clumps. It’s like gravy granules.’

‘Okay, beginners please!’ shouted Chris. ‘Beginners to the stage, now!’

‘Can I kiss you? Will it spoil your make-up?’

‘Sure. No tongue, I pray thee.’

I kissed her lightly; she held my face and kissed me once again. ‘I’m so glad you came back,’ she said, then pushed me towards the curtained doorway where the others waited.

The lights dimmed, the audience fell silent, we heard the hum of the electricity surging through the wires and a burning smell like dust on a light bulb. On stage, Lesley and John lounged in the Italian sun, and went into their business, thumbs and fish and maidenheads. ‘We’re off,’ whispered Alex at my side. Part, fools, put up your swords, I muttered, part, fools, put up your swords. There was a hand on my back: Lucy, grinning. ‘Let’s do this thing!’ she said, and I put my hand on my sword – a sword! I had a sword – and she pushed me out into the light.





Little Stars


For a long time, I owned a video cassette of the show. We all had one, a souvenir, handed out to us the day after the last performance, the day on which we all turned up, hung-over and sad, to dismantle the set, and even as we took possession of our VHS, we knew that we’d never watch it. Three hours of amateur dramatics shot from too far away: what torture that would be, as dull and uninvolving as watching the nativity play of a child you’ve never met. ‘An adequate production,’ proclaimed the local Advertiser the following week, ‘with some patchy verse speaking and wildly uneven acting. Frances Fisher makes a toothsome Juliet, and Alex Asante is a charismatic Mercutio, but Romeo lacks charm. Three stars out of five.’

But to be part of it, that was thrilling, and all the tensions and rivalries were forgotten as we tumbled through this thing, watching each other’s scenes, patting backs as actors returned to the wings like footballers who’d scored a goal – well done, nice work, amazing stuff, big laughs! When it was over, I threw myself into the sweaty hugging and over-praising along with everybody else. We were all amazing, and the audience over-praised us too, cheering and stomping their feet, so that we took far too many curtain calls, with people clattering down the steps and producing their car keys even before we’d left the stage.

Friday night, of course, was pure anti-climax. ‘Fart, pools! Put up your swords!’ was Benvolio’s first line and things deteriorated from there. The Saturday matinee was disappointing too, and it seemed to me that being in a play was like hearing your favourite song, then hearing it again, and again until the magic was completely gone. Without the romance of the fading light, the matinee was flat and inept, a walkthrough in front of half-empty seats. There’s no atmosphere in a flaming torch on a warm August afternoon, and to make up for the lack of enchantment we took to declaiming at each other, like tourists shouting ‘Echo!’ into a canyon. ‘That,’ said George, watching Polly’s first Nurse scene from the wings, ‘is some big acting.’

‘Acting you can see from space,’ said Alex.

But it was impossible not to succumb and, bellowing my way through my last big speech, I caught the eye of my sister in the second row, sticking two thumbs up, and saw Mum, eyes fixed on the floor, fingers pressed against her temples as if to dispel a migraine. ‘I hate matinees,’ said Miles, the seasoned pro. ‘It’s like having sex with the big light on,’ said Alex and even the virgins agreed that this was exactly what it was like. When it was over, finishing to polite applause, I trudged out to the refreshment tent and found Mum and Billie, frowns adjusting to smiles as I approached, Mum applauding with two fingers patted against the palm of her hand.