by Tara Basi
“I’ve never heard anything about a meteorite, you’re making that up. There’d at least be a plaque or something about the loss of the sweet shop. Anyway, what’s happening now is horrible enough. I don’t know how much more I can stand,” I said, leaping to my feet desperate to do something about our terrible plight.
“You’re right, this has been going on for a week, the whole island is close to complete meltdown. I’ve seen grown men crying in the streets, the population is getting desperate,” Bobby observed.
“What are we going to do? My brain is seizing up! And, you know the worst thing? Captain Carbuncle is just getting on with it, without me! I’ve missed two episodes. This is torture.” I screeched at no one in particular. Slowly, I was losing the will to live.
“Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Perhaps it’s an opportunity, a chance to improve people’s minds, show them there’s more to life?” Bobby mused half to himself.
A glimmer of hope touched my heart when I noticed Bobby gently tugging at his trousers. Not a full hitch but definitely a sign that something was stirring in his enormous brain box. Resting my bum back down on the school steps I waited for Bobby to formulate his latest master plan, praying that my part would not involve undue pain and suffering.
“That’s it! We’ll put on a show, but not just any kind of show. It’ll be a show that’ll bring real culture to our brain-dead population. A show of such artistry it will break their mindless addiction to the evil wallpaper box,” Bobby suddenly shouted as he executed a full trouser hitch.
“What are you talking about? I thought we’d be planning to build a giant antenna or a submarine to go fix the cable. Who’s going to be interested in watching a stupid school play?” I was disappointed. We were in crisis and Bobby had gone all theatrical. Lately I’d noticed my mum had started reading the sports pages as well as the front half of the newspaper, all six sides of the breakfast cereal box and the backs of bills.
“Exactly my little impresario-in-waiting. Normally no one would be interested, including us. Now we’ll be the only show in town. We have a population so bored they’re reading palms. Old farmer Burkum is selling tickets to watch his sheep eat grass. There’s a themed version of the sheep show on Saturday that’s sold out. I think he’s dressing them in Star Trek costumes this time. Imagine what our little population would give to see some proper entertainment.”
“Star Trek sheep eating grass? Are you sure it’s sold out?” came out of my mouth before I could get my brain to shut it. Bobby had a point.
“We don’t know anything about shows, the choirmaster thinks we’re a danger to music, dancing’s for girls and acting is, well just not manly, unless killing aliens is involved,” I argued.
“It’s not about ability, talent or sexual orientation, this will be high art. Art so high it floats above mundane practical considerations. We just need to sort out a few minor details, like what the show will be about,” Bobby replied rather dismissively.
“Surely there’s a bit more to it than that, don’t we have to sell tickets and things?” I questioned.
“Indeed, let me see, we’ll need a venue, sponsorship, a cast, technical staff, director, producer and, as you say, a paying audience, but first we need to decide on content,” Bobby mused and then fell silent.
Maybe putting on a show wasn’t such a bad idea. There would be starlets and perhaps scenes of tasteful nudity. I would be spotted and whisked away to Hollywood or maybe Pinewood to star in “Terminator meets the Predator while fighting off Aliens” alongside Angelina Jolie. At the premiere, Madge would be in a long line of screaming girls desperate for just a glimpse of my muscles.
“I have it, the perfect vehicle to awaken a thirst for culture in our sorry inhabitants: King Lear.”
Bobby’s sudden animation startled me from happy thoughts of imminent stardom, “King who? Is that like King Arthur, Merlin and Knights of the Round Table? Because that could be fun.”
“I shall of course direct and bear the burden of the title role. You Terry will be our producer, the most important responsibility in any theatrical endeavour.’
“What am I supposed to produce?”
“A venue, sponsorship, the rest of the cast, lighting, costumes, ticket sales, interval nibbles and beverages. Why are you still standing here with that open flytrap? Rehearsals start next Monday, our first performance will be on the following Friday. We must strike quickly; our show is perishable treasure that’ll turn to dung as soon as the cable’s repaired. Now hustle Terry, hustle. I will now retire to prepare,” and with that Bobby headed off to the library.
Did it matter that I had no idea what the show was about, who was going to be in it, apart from Bobby, where it was happening or who was going to pay for it all? Of course not, as Bobby was always saying, discovery and exploration were core to the Masterminder creed. We weren’t interested in projects that made sense, we had homework for that. As I watched Bobby disappear into the school library I remembered that when we were banking, Bobby had said something about following the money. I could only think of one person who had some and might be persuaded to help me out.
Mr Singh’s first response was, “You want a show sponsor? Me? Why? What’s about, this show?”
“It’ll be fantastic, all about knights in armour, jousting and bashing each other with giant metal balls with big spikes. Perfect family entertainment and great publicity for Mr Singh’s Post Office, Sweet and Chip Emporium,” I enthused.
“No girls dancing, no songs, no evil gangsters? What about disco and proper kung-fu fighting? Terrible show! Where money for me? Everybody already knows Mr Singh. ”
This was going to be a little more difficult than I’d thought but I was not going to give up, not with poor Bobby having to learn all those lines. He’d shown me the script; it was ridiculously long, there were pages and pages, hundreds of words. I was so relieved I only had to produce stuff.
“Fantastic ideas Mr Singh, all that’s going into the show. Disco dancing knights on horseback fighting gangsters with lots of wenches singing! Amazing creativity. And Mr Singh, think how thirsty and hungry people will be during the interval after all that excitement,” I hopefully embellished.
“What’s show called?”
“King Lear.”
“No good! I only sponsor if show called King Singh, has good bits put in and Mr Singh gets exclusive t-shirt and refreshments contract.”
“OK.”
“And nice dancing singing part for my little niece, ninety-five percent ticket sale money and only Mr Singh sell tickets,” Mr Singh added.
“Sure, absolutely Mr Singh, lovely doing business with you,” I called back over my shoulder as I hurried out of his shop. It was already Wednesday, rehearsals started next Monday and I still had a cast and a venue to sort out. Only one person could deliver a venue and the kids I’d need to fill all the roles Bobby wanted filling.
“A show Terry, that’s a wonderful idea,” said Mother Superior. “Everybody’s a bit down at the moment. A little entertainment with a lovely spiritual theme would be really nice. What’s it about? Does it have a name yet?”
“King Singh and the nuns are Alive with the Sound of Music,” I hastily replied, desperate to keep Mother Superior’s interest.
“Interesting title. What’s the theme?” Mother Superior pressed.
“How sacred music and the good work of the nuns converted the heathen King Singh to Christianity?” I half asked.
“It sounds perfect. You and Bobby are an inspiration. Of course you can use the church hall. Mr Jones the caretaker will help you with the lighting and so on. Please do involve as many of the other pupils as you can. I‘ll announce that casting starts this afternoon at the end of lessons. This is going to be just what our little island needs,” Mother Superior happily replied.
The cast list with Bobby as King Lear / Singh had been stuck up on the notice board at lunchtime. Only boredom, and rumours that I’d been spreading all day of undercover Big Brother and
X-Factor talent scouts coming to the show, brought a long line of 20 excited and desperate hopefuls for the 22 parts. I was still on my own. Bobby was completely immersed in preparing for his performance, something to do with the rhythm method. For now I didn’t want to upset Bobby’s rhythm by bothering him with minor plot changes and other trivial matters like the new title. Anyway, important matters first, the casting. As the auditions started I pictured myself as a devilishly charming talent show judge mercilessly handing out ridicule and contempt. This was going to be great.
“That’s settled then, George is Swamp Thing and I shall play Attila the Hun,” Tony decisively declared.
“But I don’t think they’re actually in the play, ideally you need to play one of the characters on the cast list,” I timidly suggested.
Tony thumped me.
“Good point, we can work this out, George is obviously the Duke of Burgundy as performed by Swamp Thing. And of course you Tony will be Edgar, brilliantly played by Attila the Hun,” I nervously proposed.
“Whatever, you stupid pile of doggy-do,” Tony called over his shoulder as two of the Power Three strode out of the hall.
“I want to be King of France,” Madge announced.
“Actually I think that’s a man’s part, how about Maid, that’s a really nice role,” I happily offered.
Madge thumped me.
“Madge, you’ll make a perfect King of France,” I quickly added.
And so the afternoon trudged on until only two parts were left, Fool and Maid. It seemed I would be playing the Fool, and Mr Singh’s little niece would play the Maid. Apart from Madge everyone else decided they wanted to follow Tony and George’s lead and play their own favourite film or TV character which added the Fantastic Four, Spiderman, the crew of the star ship Enterprise, Doctor Who and a myriad of other colourful personalities to our cast. King Singh was coming together nicely. I’d even sorted out costumes - everyone would bring their own.
It was probably time to brief Bobby on developments so that he could fine-tune his performance and tinker a little with the plot.
“Please Terry, I’m not to be disturbed. The role of King Lear is the most demanding of Shakespeare’s creations, let alone the challenges of direction. It’s Thursday already and I’m still searching for my inner motivation and the right staging. Shall we go classical or perhaps choose a more avant-garde setting? What say you Terry?” Bobby asked.
“Wow, sounds tough. I think as long as there are nuns, dusky kings, a female king, spaceships, aliens, super-heroes, monsters, disco dancing, gangsters, singing and subtle hints of spirituality, we’ll be fine,” I offered.
“Impressive, indeed a radical re-interpretation. It might work. King Lear as a time-travelling potentate saying goodbye to his life of daring-do and handing over to the family, surrounded by intergalactic hangers-on from many ages and planets. Yes, perhaps. Away Terry, I need to create, the muse calls,” Bobby mumbled and then bundled me out of the school broom cupboard that had become his artistic retreat.
Great, only one last piece of casting to sort out and then the rehearsals to organise. I was beginning to enjoy this. Mr Singh’s niece lived in the row of terraced houses that huddled together for warmth at the back of the village square. It was going to be a lovely surprise for the little girl; she was going to be the Maid.
“I’m Mr Singh’s niece, what do you want little boy?”
She was old, really old, at least 25 and big.
“Ah, well umm, Mr Singh said that umm you’d like to be in our show?” I spluttered.
“My god, a show! My god! Mummy-ji, I’m in a show, I’ll be dancing, singing, I’ll be a star! This is brilliant!”
“What is it Dimple, why are you shouting, your mummy is coming!” came a voice from upstairs.
Her even plumper mother suddenly appeared. Both of them were squashed together in the doorway like over-stuffed sausages.
“Uncle-ji Singh is a saint, a saint, god bless him. See Dimple, all those Bollywood lessons are paying off. You have no faith in your old mum and your uncle, but we told you, practice, practice, practice, and offers will flood in. Now upstairs and start more practicing right now! You still here little boy, what do you want?” Mummy-ji asked.
“Oh nothing, just so you know rehearsals start next Monday after school at the church hall,” I answered.
“Rehearsals?” Mrs Mummy-ji queried.
“With the rest of the cast..,” I explained.
“You mean the off-stage backing singers and the dimly lit background dancers, right? Dimple is the star, the big star, the only star, right? Uncle-ji Singh was very clear I hope?” Mrs Mummy-ji said as she brought her face very close to mine, squinted and pursed her lips. Thankfully she didn’t kiss me.
“Absolutely, the whole show is built around Dimple,” I answered while retreating rapidly backwards, alternatively bowing and curtseying.
Exhausted but extremely pleased with myself I slowly trudged home for a well-earned rest. Had I produced or what!
It was Friday morning and time to get this show on the road, or at least into the church hall. “Exactly how many rehearsals do you think we’ll need Bobby,” I asked when I arrived. “And what about some scripts and direction for the cast?”
“Terry I’ve had a revelation, a veritable epiphany! King Lear is a most precious cultural gift, can we really entrust the golden words of the Bard to the playground rabble?”
Before I’d understood the question, let alone formulated an answer, Bobby carried right on.
“No, no, no! And no! Pearls vomited from the mouths of swine into the ears of swine. It cannot be allowed! Culture must triumph, unsullied and pure. Reluctantly and with full humility I have decided to play all the parts. Rehearsals and additional cast members are therefore unnecessary. I shall retire to my sanctuary to prepare. Under no circumstances am I to be disturbed until the time of the performance.”
“But,” I squealed desperately.
“Not another word, I must immerse myself in the roles.”
“But.” It was no use. Bobby had already closed the broom cupboard door.
I suddenly felt very floppy, as though all my bones had turned to over-dunked biscuit. What was that horrible noise? It was me, screaming.
Who could I turn to? What was I going to do? There was only one thing for it, I would have to ask Mum.
I had to wait until Sunday to actually get her attention and by then I was desperate. What was I going to do with diva Dimple, a gaggle of violent kids desperate to get on X-Brother and one-boy show Bobby?
“What a clever little boy,” she said, when I eventually got her attention. “Sounds to me like you’ve managed to put together three shows. Well done, now go outside and play, I have to file my heels. I want to look my best for the big opening.”
I spent the rest of Sunday trying to come up with a proper solution, but by the time Monday morning came I had nothing better than Mum’s crazy idea.
“That’s right Mrs Mummy-ji, Dimple’s rehearsals will be tomorrow, Tuesday and again on Thursday, the performance is on Friday at 5pm. I’ve got rid of the rest of the cast, it’ll just be Dimple, the whole Dimple and nothing but the Dimple. Must be off now, lots to organise.”
Having dealt with the Dimple side of things that left the playground horde to sort out.
“Welcome to our first dress rehearsal of King Singh and the nuns are Alive with the Sound of Music.” I announced to the assembled cast. Attired in a myriad of colourful costumes they milled around the church hall taking little notice.
“Shut up or I’ll pancake your face! I’m going to stand at the front of the stage and do Swamp Thing roars,” George announced as he climbed up on to the stage.
“That’s amazing George, that’s exactly what the script says! You’ve been secretly practicing,” was my feeble response. “Actually, that’s basically it everyone. Just come up on the stage, mill around and make character noises. Words and singing are also optional. We’ll do that
for half-an-hour and that’s basically it,” I shouted over the increasing menagerie of noises from the rabble on the stage.
Then Madge thumped me.
“Oi, stupid, what noise does the King of France make? You know I don’t speak Frenchy.” Madge asked.
“Croissants, Croissants, Sacre Bleu!” I suggested after recovering my breath.
“What’s that mean? You’d better not be trying to make a fool of me,” Madge gently hinted as she pinched my windpipe between her powerful fingers.
“Croissants, Croissants, Sacre Bleu, means the king is great, long live the king,” I wheezed out past her death grip on my throat.
Having dealt with the more temperamental members of the cast it was time for a little direction.
“Wonderful, that’s it, mill about, more noises. Madge, very good, an occasional grating adds depth. Perfect everybody. Now with a little more feeling. Donald get off Mary, that’s not the kind of feeling I meant.”
The awfulness on the stage just got worse and worse as the tangled mob got steadily more chaotic. I imagined this was what quantum mechanics looked like in action.
“Wonderful stuff, I think we’re done,” I shouted over the increasing din coming from the stage. “So the performance is on Friday at 4pm. No need for any more rehearsals, you can overdo rehearsals. Just remember that I’ll blow the whistle at exactly 4pm to start the show and at exactly 4:30pm to end it, then you all have to get off sharpish.”
“We done already?” Tony quizzed.
“You can’t improve on perfection; you’re all going to be stars,” I answered.
“All?” Tony menacingly queried.
“Well I mean everybody will be mini-stars, but those who get to the front of the stage at the end, shout loudest and keep it up for 30 minutes and then get off the stage on time will obviously be the mega-stars who get talent spotted,” I clarified.
“So, they’re definitely coming, these spotters and last one standing at the front shouting when time’s up gets spotted, right?” Tony whispered.
“Exactly, one star is born every minute, somewhere,” I replied.
