Sweet Sorrow(81)

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Fran.

‘Bit sore,’ I said.

‘I bet you are,’ said Alex.

‘Alex …’ said Fran.

‘So where are we all going now?’ said Helen. ‘The four of us.’

‘Actually,’ said Fran, ‘Charlie and me are going to run some lines,’ and their laughter rang out through the treetops.

‘“Run some lines”. Well, I’ve never heard it called that before—’

‘Grow up, Alex.’

‘No, I think it’s a great idea. Helen and I will come with you.’

‘Sorry, we’ve got bikes,’ I said.

‘We’ll jog alongside!’ said Alex. ‘Take us with you!’

‘So childish. Charlie, get on your bike.’

‘But who’s going to help me run my lines?’ said Alex.

‘We’re coming with you!’ said Helen.

‘We’re going now,’ shouted Fran. ‘Bye!’

‘See you tomorrow!’ I shouted, standing high on the pedals.

‘But I want to run my lines!’

‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’





Running the Lines


And so for the next two weeks, we’d head off in the evenings and run our lines.

Nothing had ever looked cooler to me than Fran Fisher on a drop-handled Italian racing bike, and as much as we could we’d cycle side by side, the sun fluttering through the trees like light through an old projector, sometimes only making it a short distance before we’d pull over and, still kissing, stumble and stagger off our bikes. We ran our lines in woods and hedgerows and, in the absence of traditional haystacks, in the shadow of black-plastic-wrapped cylinders of straw, the new stubble digging into our backs like a bed of nails. One night Fran brought red wine stolen from her parents, pushing the cork into the bottle with a biro, the contents jammy and as warm as tea after a day in the sun. We took it in turns to swig the stuff, then, woozy and sticky-mouthed and struggling not to laugh, Fran took a mouthful and passed it into my mouth. ‘Sensual? Or was that just gross?’ she said as a large part of it dribbled down my neck.

Memories of the previous evening and the prospect of the next sustained me through the long, increasingly urgent rehearsals. We’d watch scenes and what we saw was … not good, but better than the grandstanding and posturing of the early days, the weird vocal mannerisms fading away, the story and characters rising up through the murk. People looked at each other now, touched each other without flinching, urged each other on. I’d never played in an orchestra and never would, but imagined that this was what it was like to learn a long piece, to anticipate the bits you liked, find something to distract you through the dull stretches, to play your part with the intention of making the whole better, even if no one in the audience would notice. Embarrassment, I realised, was more embarrassing than making an effort, and so I did my best, without quite noticing the moment I became a member of the company, both in my own mind and their eyes. Why would I not want to be part of something that Fran loved?

And though it’s hard to imagine a less objective critic, I became more and more convinced that she was the greatest actor there had ever been. I loved the way her eyes and hands would track an idea as if following a bird that has flown into a room, and I loved her stillness, the absolute control and confidence that what she said mattered. I loved how she would make the words sound new, then make them new again the next time through, and I’d lean forward in my chair and watch, never for a moment feeling jealous or unsure but only proud at what she could do, proud and a little amazed that we were together.

But during the day we never touched and only spoke in a pointedly platonic way and there was further agony in sticking to this rule, like holding in a breath, only released in the moment we could wave goodbye to the others and hurtle away along empty lanes, searching for somewhere new and secret to ‘run the lines’. Sometimes in guilt or panic, we would even actually run the lines, with me as her slow-witted temporary Romeo, talking about saints and lips and prayers.

‘Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?’ I said.

‘Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,’ said Fran.

‘O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! They pray: grant thou lest faith turn to despair.’

‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’

‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.’

‘Then the stage directions say “he kisses her”.’

‘Yes, but we don’t have to do that. We’re just running lines.’

‘I bet Miles does it.’

‘He does, but we have a contract. Strict no-tongues clause.’

‘Make sure he sticks to it.’

‘Oh I will,’ she said, and kissed me. ‘But do you get it?’

‘He’s trying to convince her that a kiss is the same as a prayer.’

‘That old line.’

‘And she’s being all saintly.’

‘Or pretending to be. She wouldn’t let him kiss her if she didn’t want him to. I think she wants it more, if anything. That’s the extent of my interpretation of the role.’

‘Juliet’s up for it.’