Sweet Sorrow(111)

‘They’re proud!’ said Fran.

‘They’re bored,’ said Alex. ‘Look at my father, trying to read his programme.’ Beside him sat my father, leaning forward, chin cupped in his hands. I stood and watched him all the way through Fran’s ‘fiery-footed steeds’, his head bopping just a little, at the jazz of the words I imagined, and I watched him as we waited for everyone’s favourite line.

‘Here it comes,’ said Helen.

On stage, Fran stood in a cone of light.

‘Give me my Romeo,’ she said, ‘and when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars/And he will make the face of heaven so fine/That all the world will be in love with night.’

I watched Dad grin at this, eyes widening at each twist on the idea – to be cut out in little stars, imagine – and I felt as if I was in possession of a great secret.

I did my thing too, trudging through it workman-like, said my last line – ‘This is the truth, or let Benvolio die!’ – and left the stage, with nothing left to do but fill an empty space in the final scene. In the meantime, we gathered in the wings and watched whatever scenes we could. ‘Aren’t they good?’ whispered Alex during Paris and Juliet’s humiliating courtship, and I wondered who else could see the pain of George’s kiss on Fran’s cheek, the awful knowledge that he isn’t loved but goes on loving just the same.

And then everything seemed to accelerate, and Paris and Romeo were fighting, and Paris was dead – Oh, I am slain! – and Romeo was drinking poison – O true Apothecary, thy drugs are quick! – a line that had always made us giggle, but not tonight because, oh God, now Juliet was waking up and looking at his corpse with this terrible, blank stare. The dagger in her hand had a retractable blade. We’d all played with it, our favourite toy, and surely the audience could see the artifice of it, how ridiculous it was. Oh, happy dagger! – you could hear the spring rattle in the hilt. But when I sought out my father in the front row I could see his hands clapped to his face, pulling down on his cheeks, eyes glinting at the awful bitter tragedy of it all.

Time for our last entrance, Chris handing us our flaming torches so that we could stand and soberly confront the repercussions of our feud. The long, prosaic scenes after Juliet’s death had always seemed fantastically dull to me, but this was the last night and, following Ivor’s instructions to ‘go for it’, Polly’s Nurse was practically hyperventilating with grief. We sang the minor-key madrigal we’d been taught, the Capulets embracing the Montagues, Montagues, Capulets. The dead bodies were carried aloft, Miles’ handsome, sweaty head dangling over my shoulder as we processed through the audience. Look them in the eye, Ivor had told us, because this play was still incredibly relevant to audiences today, even if we’d be hard pressed to explain exactly why.

‘… for never was a story of more woe/Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’

We stood beneath the scaffolding, looking up at the audience’s shins as the music faded and the last light disappeared. From here, the applause sounded immense, feet stomping on the wooden boards over our heads, and we were laughing, and then stepping back out for the curtain call with that perky little skipping run practised by gymnasts, flopping forward to show just how emotionally exhausting the whole thing had been, holding out our hands to Miles and Fran, resurrected and strolling on arm in arm. And then all discipline broke down and we were pushing Ivor and Alina to the front of the stage, and supermarket bouquets were appearing, and the audience was perhaps getting a little tired of clapping, would quite like to head home now. Squinting against the light I saw Alex’s father clap and look at his watch at the same time. ‘Encore! Encore!’ they shouted while privately thinking, please, don’t do anything again.

But Dad was on his feet, attempting to force an ovation through the sheer vigour of his clapping. When it became clear that he wouldn’t stop, the rest of the audience caved, my father cheering louder than anyone, arms above his head, more, more, more, and not for the first time that summer, I wanted simultaneously to run away and to stay there forever.





Last Night


Backstage, boys and girls barged into each other’s dressing rooms for glimpses of underwear, no one trying too hard to remove their make-up. Tumbling out in our party clothes, we found the streets of Verona lit in reds and greens, the audience clutching plastic cups of warm white wine. Entire families were there, school friends, teachers kissing and hugging. Everyone, it seemed, was the best thing in it. I stood on the corner for a while, smiling as if watching a stranger’s wedding on the street; pleased to see the confetti but with no reason to join in.

And then I saw Dad approaching through the crowd, beaming but still red around the eyes as he threw his arms around me.

‘Well done, my boy,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

Automatically, I replied, ‘Proud of you too, Dad.’

‘What for?’ he said, and laughed. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

Dad left soon after, cadging a lift into town from Mr and Mrs Asante, and now it was time for the party to begin. Chris and Chris had fixed the lights to turn Verona into a dance floor, and we threw each other around until we were all soaked in sweat, breaking off now and then to poke through hedges for bottles. There were sentimental speeches that went on for too long, and my attention turned to the bats in the night sky, looping and wheeling overhead. Then Polly drank too much white wine and had to lie down on the grass, and Lucy and Miles were seen snogging in the grotto, and Keith was dancing all alone. Concerned that someone might get hurt, George – very drunk – was tidying away all the bottles and cups. House music turned to dark techno. ‘I had a bag. I can’t find my bag,’ said Colin Smart over and over again. ‘Has anyone seen my bag? I can’t leave without my bag!’