The Perfect Fit

by Mary Jayne Baker

  The only person more excited than me was Deano. I could tell when I arrived at the Temp that he was all the way up to 11 on the crazyometer. If the panto had a physical presence, he’d be stroking it inappropriately.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded. ‘You’re half an hour late.’

  ‘I’m fifteen minutes early. 2pm, you said.’

  ‘That might be what I said, but those of us who’re properly dedicated have been here ages.’ He shook his head. ‘Thought I could count on you, Becks.’

  ‘What did that letter call you again? “Utter, utter bastard”?’

  ‘That was when I was being nice,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m hoping for a “complete and total fucker” by the time you lot are ready to write me a letter. Go on, get backstage. We just need Gerry.’

  I waved to Stew and Lana, seated out front playing the important role of ‘the audience’, and headed through the stage door.

  All the main cast members apart from Gerry, the reluctant dame, were there: Marcus, Maisie, Yolanda and Harper. Oh, and Gavin with his camera. The man had a chameleon knack for blending into the background.

  Maisie was rehearsing with Harper, Yolanda was reading her script and Marcus was juggling. He stopped when I joined him.

  ‘Don’t need to practise that, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but it’s therapeutic. Calms me down.’

  ‘You haven’t got stagefright?’

  ‘It’s not the acting.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s the script. What if they think it’s crap, Becks? They might boo us off stage.’

  I scoffed. ‘Stew and Lana? I’m sure they’ll be constructive.’

  ‘They’ll have to be. Because they might go easy on us, but trust me, the kids won’t,’ he said. ‘There’s no more savage critic than the average six-year-old. They’ll eat us for breakfast if we don’t deliver. I mean, literally eat us.’

  ‘Ah, that’s nerves talking. They won’t eat us,’ I said. ‘It’s a great script. It’s got everything. Cheesy jokes, innuendo, slapstick…’ I glanced around the rest of the cast. ‘It’s not the material I’m worried about, it’s this lot.’

  ‘God, don’t even get me started on that.’ Marc nodded to Maisie and Harper. ‘Have you heard these two? If his BAFTA’s listening, it’s weeping for the acting profession.’

  ‘It can’t, it doesn’t have eyeballs. It’s just a creepy gold face staring in empty-socketed horror for all eternity.’

  ‘Yeah, and these guys’re why.’

  I tuned into the conversation going on a little way from us. Harper was getting impatient.

  ‘It’s a joke, Mais. For Christ’s sake, stop saying it like you’re reading a eulogy.’

  ‘How can I say it like a joke when it’s not funny?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s not funny to you because you’re not a little kid. You don’t have to find it funny. You have to bloody act.’

  She stuck her bottom lip out. ‘I can’t do it if you’re being mean, Harper.’

  I was sure I saw a muttered ‘for fuck’s sake’ on the corner of Harper’s lips, but he quickly rearranged his face into a simpering smile. ‘Sorry, baby girl. I don’t mean to be cross. I just get frustrated when I see the obvious talent you’re not using.’

  ‘Bloody hell, he really is a good actor,’ Marcus whispered in my ear.

  Maisie lifted her petulant frown a little. ‘Well, I’ll try again. But be nice, ok?’

  ‘Ok.’ Harper took a deep breath. ‘Have you ever had a pet apart from Daisy, Jack?’

  ‘I had a pet rock once.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Jesus, he’s right,’ I muttered to Marcus. ‘She sounds like she’s reading the news.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure her dire performance at the audition was completely down to nerves, you know.’

  ‘She just needs practice. I hope. I’m going over, before that vein in Harper’s temple pops.’

  I strode over and tapped Harper on the shoulder.

  ‘Can I rehearse with her? It’d be good for us to get used to working together.’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he said. ‘Becky, right? Be my guest.’

  Maisie looked me up and down, then turned to her husband.

  ‘Do I have to do it with her?’

  ‘What’s wrong with doing it with me?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh, no offence, honey,’ she said, giving my elbow a patronising squeeze. ‘I’m used to acting with Harper, that’s all.’

  I fought down a swell of annoyance. ‘But he’s not going to be doing the lines when we perform it, is he?’ I said. ‘I am. We might as well get used to each other now, before we’ve got Deano bawling us out.’

  ‘The guy with the bright red hair?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘He was pretty scary.’

  ‘Ok.’ I summoned the lines she’d been practising. ‘So. Have you ever had a pet apart from Daisy, Jack?’

  ‘I had, um… a fish?’

  Harper mouthed the word ‘rock’.

  ‘Oh, right, different pet bit,’ she said. ‘Yeah, I had a rock.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’ I asked, waggling my eyebrows encouragingly.

  ‘He died.’

  ‘That was great, Maisie. Really good,’ I lied. ‘The thing is though, it is supposed to be funny. So what you need to do is make it not funny at all.’

  Harper nodded vigorously. ‘Yes! Deadpan, Mais. That’s the thing I’ve been trying to explain.’

  ‘So it’s funny but it’s not funny?’ Maisie asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘It’s funny for the audience,’ I said. ‘For you, it’s serious as hell. Your poor pet rock’s dead, for God’s sake! How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Well, fine. Because it’s a rock, isn’t it? They don’t die. They’re made of rock.’

  ‘All right, then pretend it’s not a rock. Pretend it’s an adorable little puppy, called, um, Woofy. The cutest little pup in the whole world. A pug, probably, or a chihuahua: something small and needy with massive soul-wrenching eyes. And he just dropped dead suddenly of, er… dogpox. Now how do you feel?’

  ‘Oh God! Awful!’ she said. ‘Poor Woofy.’

  ‘Right, that’s it! Really get into your head, Maisie. Dig deep into those emotions. Anything else?’

  ‘I feel… like when I watched Wall-E. I was in bits for a week, I swear. Wasn’t I, Harper?’

  ‘Mais is very sensitive,’ Harper said, giving her bottom an affectionate pat.

  ‘Harper, she’s making me feel sad on purpose,’ Maisie said in the pouty infant voice that seemed to work so well for getting her own way.

  ‘She’s right to, babe. It’ll expand your emotional range. That’s how us actors learn our craft.’ He gave me an approving nod. ‘You know, you’re good at this, bringing out the best in her. I remember when I was starting out and Kev did the same for me.’ He glanced at Maisie. ‘Kevin Bacon. Great guy. We shot a mobile phone ad together. By the time he’d put me through my paces, I really believed a Samsung Galaxy could feel ennui.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks,’ I said, flushing. That was no small compliment. Harper was actually pretty talented.

  ‘Hmm. Well, if you think she’s like Kevin Bacon,’ Maisie said, casting a doubtful look my way. ‘Oh, Harper?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can we get a puppy?’

  Chapter 17

  ‘Slosh scene first!’ Deano called through the stage door. ‘Marc, Gerry, you’re up.’

  The slapstick ‘slosh scene’, which usually involved copious amounts of shaving foam, flour and other mess, was a key part of any panto. Traditionally it occurred before the interval so the stagehands would have a 15-minute break to get cleaned up. It was also the kids’ favourite bit, and me a
nd Marc had given a lot of time to it in our scripting sessions. We’d spent hours doing research together, watching Laurel and Hardy shorts for material we could borrow and combing through old Egglethwaite Players scripts for ideas.

  Classic moves from previous village pantos included the hat full of shaving foam jammed down on someone’s head, a hole in the centre causing it to spurt fountain-like out of the top; the idiot sidekick offering his belt to hold something in place, with the result that his trousers fell down, and lots of comedy violence. Poor old Phil Donati, Egglethwaite’s slapstick king, seemed to have a stage direction instructing another actor to either kick him in the pants or whack him over the head every other line. Kids loved that stuff apparently, the little psychopaths.

  The scene we’d written featured Gerry as Dame Trott, Marcus as Sleepy Steve and a volunteer from the audience, all getting nice and messy as they did some ‘baking’. We’d stumbled over a winning formula for custard pies in an old script too, with a note in the margin suggesting mushy peas mixed with the shaving foam made for a satisfyingly gruesome splat in the face. Luckily for Marc and Gerry, this first rehearsal we’d decided to let them mime.

  While they joined Deano on stage, I snuck out to sit with Lana, Stewart and Sue in the audience.

  ‘Here we go,’ I whispered to Lana. ‘Time to find out if we’ve got a dame who can actually act and a script that’s actually funny.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Lana said. But she sounded anxious.

  The stage was bare apart from a table bearing a bowler hat and paper plates representing custard pies.

  ‘Gerry, you’re here,’ Deano said, guiding his Dame Trott into position. ‘Here’s a script.’

  ‘Don’t I get a costume?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Becks is still sorting them. For now, just imagine yourself in fishnets and try to channel Danny la Rue.’

  ‘Oh. I was looking forward to a bit of dressing up.’

  ‘He’s changed his tune,’ I whispered. ‘What did you do to him, Sue?’

  She scoffed. ‘The man’s a fraud. Pretends all he wants is a quiet life, but he loves being the centre of attention.’

  ‘That explains the morris dancing then,’ Stew said. ‘It’s a confident man who’ll willingly dress up in knickerbockers and skip round a giant cock every May Day.’

  ‘He has been getting a bit… committed to this dame business,’ Sue said. ‘Caught him staring at the fashion section in my Woman’s Weekly the other day, fascinated by a cowl-neck jumpsuit. A sequinned cowl-neck jumpsuit.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ I stared at Gerry. I felt like I’d discovered a whole new side to him.

  ‘When’s the moustache coming off then?’ Marcus asked him.

  Gerry looked horrified. ‘You what? Nobody told me that was part of the deal.’ He gave his soup-strainer an affectionate stroke. ‘I’ve had this since I was twenty-seven.’

  ‘We can’t have a Dame Trott with facial hair,’ Deano said. ‘She’ll look like a cross-dressing trucker.’

  Gerry clamped one hand over his moustache, as if he was afraid the lads were going to pin him down and shave it off right then. ‘I grew this as a present for my missus on our fifth wedding anniversary. It’s got sentimental value.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Sue called out. ‘I knew it was a mistake, telling him I fancied Tom Selleck,’ she muttered to us.

  ‘Oi. No heckling from the stalls,’ Deano said, shooting her a look. He turned back to Gerry. ‘Come on, mate. It’ll only be for a week, then you can grow it back.’

  ‘Why though? Clean-shaven or not, no one’s going to think I’m really a lass, are they?’

  ‘The kids will, long as you’re in a dress,’ Marcus said. He tossed his head. ‘That’s what we actors call the willing suspension of disbelief, luvvie.’

  ‘It’s the unwilling suspension of my moustache that worries me,’ Gerry muttered.

  Deano sighed. ‘All right, if it means that much to you, keep the thing. Let’s start the scene.’

  ‘Right.’ Gerry cleared his throat and trilled a few scales.

  ‘What’s the singing in aid of?’ The little twitch in Deano’s eye was starting.

  ‘Warming my voice up, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re not bloody Julie Andrews. Get on with it.’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, laddie,’ Gerry said, glaring. ‘I’m old enough to be your father.’

  ‘And you’re also in a panto I’m directing, so get used to obeying orders.’

  Gerry cast a wary look at Sue. ‘Believe me, that’s one thing I am used to.’ He glanced at the script. ‘Ok. Stage left, it says here. Is that my stage left or your stage left?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Deano muttered. ‘Just do the line, Gerry. The pub’s open.’

  Gerry’s lips moved as he read the scene’s opening line to himself. Then he looked up, pursed his lips and put his hands on his hips in traditional high-camp fashion. Deano breathed a sigh of relief and retreated to the wings.

  ‘Now then, you idle beggar,’ Gerry said in a sonorous lady opera singer voice to Marc, wobbling his hips. ‘Are you going to help me get these pies on for our Jack when he gets home?’

  ‘Awww, Muu-um,’ Marc said with teenage belligerence. ‘You know I’m supposed to practise my recorder this afternoon. It’s the village music recital tomorrow and I’m playing solo.’

  ‘I’ve told you about that before, my lad. It’ll ruin your eyesight.’ Gerry assumed a dreamy expression. ‘Ah, music, the food of love. How I adored it in my youth.’

  Marcus-Steve scoffed. ‘What, you?’

  ‘And why not, you great lumpy… lump? Do you think just because we’re poor I’ve got no culture?’ Dame Trott fanned herself with one hand. ‘I’ll have you know that as a gel I once enjoyed an evening of delightful oral entertainment from the Harrogate Male Voice Choir.’

  Me, Lana and Stew all laughed. Gerry was great with the innuendo, just the right mixture of deadpan and coy.

  Sue wasn’t laughing though.

  ‘Well, there goes what was left of our sex life,’ I heard her mutter. ‘RIP, anniversaries and birthdays.’

  ‘Now then,’ Dame Trott said to Steve. ‘Try one of the custard tarts I made this morning.’

  Marcus-Steve took one of the paper plates and mimed taking a bite. He pulled a disgusted face.

  ‘What do you think I’ll get for them when I sell them at the recital tomorrow?’ Dame Trott asked.

  ‘About five years?’

  ‘Cheeky beggar. I was thinking £1 each for these cakes, £2 for a slice of this one.’

  ‘Why does it cost more for that one?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Madeira cake.’

  I groaned internally. I’d contributed that.

  ‘Cut!’ Deano yelled. He beamed at them. ‘That was great, guys. Gerry, you’re a natural.’

  ‘You sure it was ok?’ Gerry said in his usual gruff voice.

  ‘Honestly, mate, I’d swear you’d been doing it years.’

  ‘What, panto or the Harrogate Male Voice Choir?’ Marcus asked innocently.

  ‘Let’s move on to the cooking,’ Deano said.

  Gerry slipped back into character. ‘Right, our Stephen. Let’s get the ingredients.’ He glanced at his script, then shuffled sideways across the stage.

  ‘Cut!’ Deano shouted. ‘Ok, Gerry, what the hell was that?’

  ‘It says here “Dame Trott crosses stage to cupboard”.’

  ‘Yeah, and if Dame Trott was a species of crab that’d be fine. Just walk over naturally, stop creeping about.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Right. Let’s try it again.’

  But no matter how many times they ran through the scene, Gerry couldn’t get it. His delivery was perfect, but when it came to physical comedy he just couldn’t manoeuvre his bulky frame around the stage without looki
ng self-conscious. His custard-pieing was stiff, and when they reached the finale, where he was supposed to jam the bowler hat on Marc’s head, he perched it there like he worked in a gentlemen’s outfitters.

  ‘You’re not in a sodding Moss Bros, Gerry. Proper slam it down,’ Deano said. ‘Don’t worry about our Marc, his skull’s thick enough to take it.’

  ‘What, like this?’ Gerry said, balancing the bowler jauntily on Marcus’s head.

  ‘No, like this.’ Deano took the hat off his brother and jammed it down with force, covering Marcus’s eyebrows and most of his eyes.

  ‘Ow,’ Marc said, taking the hat off and rubbing his crown.

  ‘Yeah, ow. That’s what I want you to aim for, Gerry. A good, solid ow.’ Deano waved a hand. ‘Ok, let’s move on.’

  ***

  ‘Well, I have to say that was the worst display of so-called acting I’ve seen in my long and distinguished showbiz career,’ Deano said in the pub’s function room afterwards. Hiding out in there was the price of having Harper Brady come for a pint with us, apparently. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do here, you lot.’

  ‘Come on, Deano. They weren’t that bad,’ Lana said.

  ‘Weren’t that bad, are you kidding?’ Deano reached for his notebook. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve graded you all.’

  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Of course, seriously. It’s me.’ He scanned down the list. ‘B-plus for you, Becks. Good delivery, great job on the singing. I want you to work on your arms though. They just seem to dangle there.’

  ‘Yeah. I never really know what to do with them.’

  ‘We call that “stage business” in the trade,’ Harper said, sipping his beer. ‘Watch some of the greats, that’s my advice. Bogart’s good.’

  ‘Harper, A-plus for your giant. Nice job,’ Deano said.

  ‘Cheers, mate. I’ll hang it up next to the BAFTA.’

  ‘And another for you, Yo-yo,’ Deano said, ignoring him. ‘Top work.’

  Yolanda beamed. ‘Thank you, darling. Nice to know I’ve still got the touch.’

  ‘Probably helps your grade if what you’ve touched is the director,’ Sue muttered.