Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  ‘Look who it finally is,’ Doc says, eyeing up his wall clock, when I land inside his surgery.

  ‘Better late than dead,’ I say back, sitting myself comfortably into the chair across from him and his doctor desk.

  ‘Careful now,’ Doc says, smiling at me, ‘mocking is catching.’

  ‘Doc, you’ve been saving my life for a year and a half now and I have to say I think you’re doing a terrific job. So I have no fears on that score. If you ever need a reference you know where to come.’

  ‘Coming from you, Laura, that is praise indeed.’

  ‘Of course it is. And let me also say, this is one comfortable chair.’

  ‘So. How’ve you been, Laura?’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be busy, Doc.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘There’s a part coming up. It has my name written all over it.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘In fact, as soon as we’re done here I’m on my way to the theatre. A new director has taken over. I’m hearing only good things, Doc. Only good things.’

  ‘Well, that all sounds very interesting, Laura. Do you feel you’re ready to return?’

  ‘As of precisely one hour ago and counting, yes I most certainly do.’

  ‘I see . . . I was talking to your mother the other day. I hear there’s a certain visitor due.’

  ‘A certain visitor? Tell me more, Doc.’

  ‘Your sister. She’s due home for a visit. Has she arrived?’

  ‘She might have,’ I say, and Doc smiles.

  ‘She’s been away a while, hasn’t she? I wonder would I recognize her.’

  ‘If her photograph is anything to go by, she is now more or less perfect,’ I say. ‘I’ve set myself the task of finding one blemish on her. I’ll let you know how I get on.’

  ‘Oh, so you haven’t actually spoken to her yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she’s here? She has arrived?’

  ‘She appeared on our road at precisely fifteen minutes past I-couldn’t-care-less o’clock,’ I say to that.

  ‘You’re a card, Laura. You really should think about finding a way to occupy that lively mind.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, Doc. Every morning now it seems I wake up and ask myself the same question: appoint myself queen of the universe or annihilate the eastern side of town?’

  ‘That’s the side of town I live on.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make sure you’re put on the to-be-spared list.’

  ‘I’m glad I know you, Laura. You’d nearly have me convinced.’

  ‘That’s what my daddy used to say, Doc.’

  ‘Are you not pleased your sister is home? And with a new member of the family to show off, I hear.’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Doc, I don’t know how she ever made the time. According to the occasional bulletin we receive she is killed out saving the various places she’s holed up in.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like she’s getting to see plenty of the world.’

  ‘Not enough, if you ask me. A while back – during their annual all-night Skype get-together – she was telling mother a story about a lad in India with two heads. Born with them, he was. The two heads. If you ask me that’s the place for Jennifer. Where lads with two heads are born.’

  Doc shakes his head and smiles. ‘Your topics of conversation never cease to amaze me, Laura.’

  ‘Well, imagine if it started happening around here. You’d have your work cut out for you then, Doc. We wouldn’t have so much time to talk.’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t, Laura,’ he says, as he reaches for his doctor pad and pen.

  Doc is now busy scribbling out my two weeks’ worth of medication. Mid-sentence he puts down his pen and looks at me, his eyes suddenly searching.

  ‘Have you any good movies to recommend to me? I haven’t seen anything worthwhile in ages.’

  ‘I wish I did. Television is where it’s at these days, Doc. That’s what they’re telling me. They keep trying to shove boxsets at me. But if you ask me there’s still nothing to beat the silver screen.’

  ‘The magic of the movies.’

  ‘You said it, Doc. Speaking of the television, though, have you seen a show called House of Cards?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘It’s on Netflix. Daft stuff altogether. The mother loves it.’

  ‘I still haven’t got Netflix, Laura.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t know what you’re missing. This pair in House of Cards. They are something else. A husband and wife pair and they want to rule the world. Guess what they have for breakfast? Apples and coffee.’

  ‘Apples and coffee?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I would never have guessed that.’

  ‘That’s why I told you.’

  I ask Doc for a loan of his pen and scribble out for him mother’s Netflix login details. ‘It’s not everyone I would do this for,’ I say, as I pass the slip of paper his way and at the same time claim my prescription. ‘But I suppose I have a soft spot for you, Doc.’

  ‘You’re a charmer, Laura.’

  ‘I am, Doc. Charming as a helicopter slamming into Connemara bog, me. See you in a fortnight.’

  *

  Doc writes up a fortnight’s supply at a time. At first I paid no attention to the directions. Sometimes I had the pills all gone by Wednesday morning and the rest of the days could be tricky. Sometimes I forced myself not to take anything until later in the week, stockpiling my way through the days and then I got to have a bumper weekend. Sometimes I mixed and matched, applied my olanzapine dosage to my Mogadon and my Mogadon dosage to my mirtazapine and my mirtazapine dosage to, well, whatever I felt like. I tossed them back in one go. I lined them up on the kitchen table and then made colourful patterns and shapes. I tried to remember when a certain combination did not have the desired effect. And on that rare occasion when one of my little experiments did work out and the high bliss coursed through me, I made sure to stick to the drill until my system caught on to what I was at and no longer played ball. These days, however, I do precisely what the little plastic bottles say and drip feed everything properly into my tricksy system – until medication Monday comes around again. Now that I have a theatre part to get ready for I am going to be on my very best behaviour.

  Besides. When it comes to my meds, most of the time I haven’t got a clue what they are at. Ignorance is bliss, Laura, I well remember one of my despairing schoolteachers telling me a long time ago. In that case I must be the happiest girl in the world.

  One thing I know is that I am not going back to St Jude’s. That place is for lost causes and I am not a lost cause.

  Me?

  I am going to be a star.

  The West End. Broadway. The silver screen. That’s where I belong.

  Isn’t it, Laura?

  Yes, it is, Laura. Yes it most certainly is.

  And so on to the Town Hall. Find out what this new director has in mind, check out the cut of his jib.

  6

  When I was little I used lie on the floor in my bedroom and write letters. Dear Gloria Swanson, my name is Laura Cassidy and this is a letter to congratulate you on your wonderful movie career. I think Sunset Boulevard is one of the very best movies and I thought you were fantastic in it. So fantastic that at the end of a private screening Barbara Stanwyck knelt down and kissed the hem of your skirt. When I am older I hope to be a famous actress and take my place on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. My daddy says you get ten thousand fan letters a week. Well, this week you’ll get ten thousand and one and I hope you get to read it before your eyes get tired. Thanks to you I am going to be a star. More than anything I want you to know that. I would sign them from admiring little me and address them to the Walk of Fame in Hollywood. And, whenever I had a chance, I would take them as far as Barna Woods and drop them inside the hollowed-out oak tree I had discovered while out walking with daddy. It was my way of sending the letters out into the world and
keeping them away from Jennifer’s prying eyes, to be retrieved whenever I wanted to read over them. I kept a scrapbook in the hollowed-out oak too, I still do – inside regularly changed plastic bags. I even keep a knife, because you never know.

  Into the scrapbook went clippings and photos and useful details about all my favourites. How they were discovered, memorable roles, the precise location of their star-name on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, what their real names were – reminders of happy times I like to peek through every now and then. And onto the front cover, in large curvy writing, I slapped the title of my scrapbook – a title I knew daddy would approve of:

  LAURA CASSIDY’S WALK OF FAME

  *

  It’s a hop, skip and a jump from the medical centre to the Town Hall. This is where Khaos Theatre are based until the new theatre opens. Up the concrete steps, through the double doors and I swing sharp right, avoiding reception and the fire-breathing dragon – aka Camilla the Hun – who doesn’t appear to be on duty today anyway. Up the stairs, past the rehearsal studio and on into the coffee bar where I can already see the person who I assume is the new director at the window table – along with some of the new crew. Emily is behind the counter. She’s the one I like. The dragon on reception seldom gives me so much as the time of day. Not so Emily. She has a nice smile. And empathy. Put her arms around the suffering world, Emily would. Quiet as a tinkering mouse, I slide up to the counter.

  ‘Hi, Emily.’

  ‘Laura! You gave me a fright.’

  ‘Who? Little me? I wouldn’t scare a ladybird, Emily. I wouldn’t say boo to a tinkering mouse.’

  I half-turn around so that I am facing the tables, all of them unoccupied, except for the one by the window.

  ‘Hey, Emily. Is that him?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  I take a good look in the direction of where he is seated.

  ‘He’s cute. A bit square in the shoulders. And he needs the tip of his nose lopped off. Cute, though.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I wonder has he a nice speaking voice. You look tired, Emily. Let me cover for you for an hour.’

  ‘Laura, I don’t think I can do that.’

  ‘Poppycock, Emily. Go on. Take a break. Go and smoke a pack of cigarettes. Go and call your favourite boyfriend. Tell him you’ve no underwear on today.’

  ‘You never lose it, Laura,’ she says, laughing, and gets busy with the coffee machine. I return my gaze to the table she is preparing coffee for. There are five of them. The new director and his theatre crew – bunched around the one table. Sipping coffees. Talking theatre.

  Behind the bar, Emily fills and sets up a fresh tray of coffees. I am all set to grab a hold of it and take it over to the crew, while running through my head how I will introduce myself, when he gets up and walks over to the counter.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ he says back, all furrowed brow, broody and deep-voiced with it. Precisely how theatre directors of intent should be. ‘I’ll take those coffees.’

  ‘You’re in the thick of it over there, I see. You’re the new director, aren’t you? I’m Laura. I’m an actress.’

  ‘An actress? That’s great.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Might I have seen you in anything?’

  ‘Oh, you know. I haven’t done much recently. But not for lack of wanting to. It’s my health.’

  ‘Your health?’

  ‘It hasn’t been the best of late. I won’t bore you with the details.’

  ‘Well, let me wish you a speedy recovery. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  ‘I hear you’re planning a production.’

  ‘Eh . . . yes. Yes, we are.’

  ‘What’s this it’s called . . .? Oh, wait . . . it’s a secret, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose . . .’

  ‘I understand. You can’t reveal anything. It’s OK. Don’t tell me. I’ll have fun working it out.’

  ‘I see. Well, if you’ll . . .’

  ‘Would I be correct in saying the movie version starred Vivien Leigh?’

  He smiles at that, but doesn’t fully give it away.

  ‘And next year is the seventieth anniversary.’

  ‘Eh . . . yes.’

  ‘That’s a good reason to put it on.’

  ‘We think so, yes.’

  ‘The black-and-white movie version was made in 1951.’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Did I tell you I’m an actress?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘And my daddy. Around these parts he was a very well-known actor.’

  ‘Good to know. Well, it was . . .’

  ‘I suppose, when all is said and done, what I’m really trying to say is that I’ve been waiting for a suitable part to come along. You know. A part that has the ability to reach out and grab my heart and mind. I’m really interested in your new production. This could be the one I’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘Well, eh, we’re putting out a casting call, quite soon actually – here, you can read all about it in the paper. Why don’t you come in and show us what you’ve got?’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ I say, placing my hand on the copy of the Advertiser he has indicated on the countertop. ‘I will. And thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I better get back.’

  ‘Of course you better. And don’t let me stop you. And thanks again for this opportunity. You won’t regret it. That I promise you.’

  ‘Well, eh, you’re welcome . . . Lorraine . . . but, you know, it’s . . .’

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘My name. It’s Laura. L – A – U – R – A. Laura.’

  ‘Eh . . . OK. I think I’ve got that.’

  ‘Though I will probably change it – you know, when the time comes.’

  ‘Well, that all sounds great . . . eh . . . Laura. I look forward to seeing you at the audition.’

  ‘Me, too. And like I say, Stephen – it’s OK if I call you Stephen? Thanks – like I say, thank you for the opportunity.’

  Stephen rejoins the others. They turn collectively towards me, and I give them a friendly wave. Oh, I have a good feeling about this. As soon as I clapped eyes on him, I knew he was my kind of director. Not like the disaster we had before – with his big head and fake voice. Shiny teeth too. Never trust a lad with shiny teeth.

  It won’t be long now. Soon I will be part of their little gatherings, swapping theatre ideas, offering my suggestions to their eager ears.

  It’s going to be fun.

  Isn’t it, Laura?

  Indeed it is, Laura. Indeed it is.

  7

  Mother has other ideas. She’s not convinced the theatre is where I belong. Thinks it’s a waste of time, bad for me, even. Especially after my opening-night mishap. Mother, I’ve said I don’t know how many times, Mitchell the Imbecile had me so worked up I didn’t know stage left from stage right, front from back, elbow from backside. Any wonder that by the time I had to go on I was a dithering wreck, could barely stand, let alone remember my lines. But mother is not all that convinced Mitchell was the cause. I worry about you, Laura. Her words for me when she detects I am in one of my not-going-to-entertain-a-thing-you-have-to-say moods. Feeling’s mutual, mother, is what I say to that.

  Because I do worry about her. Sometimes. She has barely set foot outside the house in two years – one expedition to the airport to welcome no-show Jennifer; one excursion to the theatre to see non-event me. She used to work in the library. Part time. Cutbacks meant she was one of the first to go. And she took it badly. One thing on top of another, she said, plonking herself in the sitting-room chair. She was no sooner laid off from the library than the big toe on her right foot decided it didn’t like its present positioning and started to turn sideways. Pretty soon, it was more or less perpendicular to the rest of her foot. At first we joked about it. You’ll have to get it sawn off. Maybe the entire foot – you
know, to be sure. Hey, mother, it’s time you toed the line. We need to break it and then reset it. That’s what Doc Harper said. I asked to do the breaking part. Some other lucky fellow got the gig. It was while she was laid up she discovered boxset TV. Skype became popular too. Then our neighbour, Yoohoo Lucy Garavan (crackpot), mentioned some dating sites to her. It might even have been Jennifer. Then enter (in the flesh) Peter Porter. And his life’s mission to haul mother out of the country for a long weekend. Good luck with that, Peter.

  I can still hear her pleading voice from when I was laid up in St Jude’s. What did I tell you? What did I tell you? I told you something was going to happen if you didn’t let up. I told you. Promise me, you’ll take it easy. Promise me . . .

  Have a think about finding yourself a job. That’s what she would say in months to come. Something that isn’t too taxing. Something straightforward. It might be a good way to set your mind in other directions.

  Other directions! Something straightforward! What precisely had she in mind, I wondered? Brain surgeon, missile inventor or apocalyptic physicist? She rolled her eyes when I started putting these possibilities to her.

  To a certain extent, however, I was willing to agree with mother. While waiting for their big breakthrough, most of my favourite stars tried their hands at a variety of scrape-the-barrel occupations. Gloria Swanson worked as a sales clerk in a department store. Lana Turner took typing classes. Lauren Bacall worked as an usher in a theatre. And Barbara Stanwyck had two jobs – a dancer and a typist. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. That’s what I decided and so not long after my discharge from St Jude’s I applied for a job as an office slave. To secure this job I had an interview to get through, and of course, in the lead-up to the interview the anxiety kicked in, and I was fretting over the questions I would be asked and what I would say in reply. Just say you’re hardworking, I kept telling myself. They have certain words they listen out for at interviews and when you say them you get a little tick beside your name. That way they know who to choose when all the interviews are over. Sure enough, at the interview the question was asked. How would you describe yourself? Hardworking, I said, without batting an eyelid, at which point the interviewer put down his pen, looked from me to the second interviewer and said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard an answer to that question that did not contain the word hardworking.’ ‘I’m also flatulent and laborious,’ I said next. ‘And I can have five orgasms in quick succession. How many times have you heard that?’ From memory, if the look on their faces was anything to go by, neither interviewer had ever heard that answer. Didn’t get me the job, though.