A Tiger's Wedding

by Isla Blair

  I had my drama “elocution” lesson every week with Miss Pocock and she gave me notes. In those days a list was sent out from RADA for you to choose from three Shakespeare pieces, three modern pieces, and you could have one piece of your own choosing. What on earth made me choose that poem? Why not St. Joan, Salome, Nina?

  Now I sit on the auditioning panel at RADA and I know how frightening the audition experience can be. What I hope it will never be is a humiliating one. The applicants come with a spring in their step and hope in their beating hearts as they embrace the day they pray will change their lives. It is surprising how few people who come to audition have got that special something that makes you sit up, the thing that you know could move, uplift, or make an audience laugh. Sometimes they are too moved or amused by themselves to include us, the audience; sometimes they are too afraid, or too schooled and coached. Only rarely do you think, “Yes” – and a green pencil marks their application paper. At this stage it is usually unanimous amongst the panel.

  Recently on an “auditions day”, applicants trudged through the snow to make the appointment that would last just a few minutes. Your heart breaks for them. The ladies’ loo had an aroma of nervous tummies, perfume for confidence, mouthwash and hairspray. Some of them were lined up in the corridor, pretending nonchalance and cool when in fact you knew their pulses were racing, their palms sweating and their insides were in a churn. One girl came in barefoot thinking, I daresay, that she was being bohemian – just as I had when I was at RADA, with my black fishnet tights and a ridiculous rubber elephant tucked under my arm. I wanted to hug her and smooth her hair and tell her everything would be well, but of course it wasn’t. She wasn’t very good.

  All of them are full of dreams, as I had been, and ambition and the desire to act. How those same hearts would sink when the letter with the RADA logo came through the letter box with the R for rejection. What they should know is that most of them WANT to act which is different from NEEDING to act. Of course, we, on the auditioning panel, are sometimes mistaken in our judgement; sometimes we are very, very wrong.

  When I auditioned for RADA there were about 800 people auditioning for 40 places – now it is just under 4,000 for 28 places, so one has to be quite strict even to allow them in to the next round. There are four auditions to get through at RADA, each one leading to a more expansive one until a whole day is spent work–shopping with other hopeful candidates and several members of staff. But at least you want the applicants to have a pleasant experience auditioning, so we try very hard to be friendly, we chat, they do their pieces, and we chat some more. My heart aches for them, as I know how I felt that hot June day waiting for my future to be decided by anonymous strangers sitting in the dark of the little theatre.

  My mother and Fiona came with me. I sat by the side of the stage where “Sergeant” said he would announce me as my turn came. I felt a bit light headed. Just before me a tousled man of about 26 with a rich sonorous voice was doing something that sounded Welsh. It was by Dylan Thomas. His voice cast a spell; it was poetic but muscular – the speaker was Anthony Hopkins.

  I was suddenly aware of my silly print dress, my too short hair, my knee socks in sensible shoes and being only sixteen. Sergeant announced me: “Number 486.”

  I think the people in the dark were having tea, because tea cups clattered and there was much whispering. Mr Hopkins had caused a stir. I did my Shakespeare piece and came to “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold ...“ I spoke with passion, but was aware of what a dreadful choice Miss Pocock and I had made. It seemed so babyish and dum-de-dum, not like Dylan Thomas at all.

  I was still blushing with humiliation, frustration and disappointment as I sat on the steps of RADA in Gower Street, waiting for my Mother and Fiona to collect me. I’d blown it, my one chance and I’d blown it. I was inconsolable, because it had been up to me and I had muffed the moment. It was hot as we trudged back to the train and I was disagreeable and monosyllabic and refused to be cheered by the notion that I couldn’t be sure, maybe it was better than I thought. It wasn’t. My chances and my dreams were shattered.

  I had no other idea for my future. I was going to be an actress, but how could I without training? I was sixteen and I had dreamed only one dream since I was six, since I’d sat in the dark at Drury Lane theatre and listened to “I Hate Men”.

  In my last term at West Preston, I had been boarded out to stay with the vicar, Father Fincham, and his wife in the vicarage about a hundred yards from the school. I loved it. I had a room of my own, the first time I had not shared a room with Fiona or several other girls. The curtains were flowery and chintzy, as was the bedspread and in the early summer mornings, the light gently touched the pink and blue flowers on the curtains, as the soft breeze wafted them in and out. It was soothing. At night, I would walk back from school through the fading July light avoiding little puffs of midges and seeing the evening star appear and wishing on it. I would come into the vicarage at bedtime and Mrs Fincham had said I was allowed to make myself cocoa and have a biscuit and maybe I would listen to Radio Luxembourg on my transistor radio. I felt independent and grown up, as if I was holding my breath waiting for my life to begin.

  But what was my life to be without being able to train to be an actress? Could one become an actress without training? Had Jean Simmons or Debbie Reynolds trained? I could write to all the repertory theatre companies, all the theatre agents. I couldn’t possibly give up so easily. What was I made of? Sterner stuff than this, surely. How could I let myself be so easily defeated, let my dream drift away? I contemplated the notion of trying to write, learn journalism, but that meant going on a typing course and a typing course would lead me, not into journalism, but to being a secretary and...STOP. Could I train to be a florist? My parents and I had chatted about Constance Spry’s Flower School, but it seemed very expensive and although I loved flowers, I didn’t want to be a florist. I wanted to be an actress.

  One Saturday morning we were about to get into the little mini-van to journey over to Farlington School in Horsham, for yet another tennis match our school would probably lose – we usually lost. I was couple three with my partner, Juliet Palmer. We piled into the van with our tennis racquets, little white dresses and shoes, when someone came running out of the front door, down the steps, “Isla! Isla! A phone call for you.” My heart lurched; I perceived that phone calls usually heralded bad news. I took the receiver into my trembling hand. It was my mother; she was gabbling.

  “Isla, we’ve had a letter from RADA; you’ve been accepted. You start there on September 20th. There is a list of things you have to get, tights, practice skirt, character shoes ...”

  Her voice became distant. I had got into RADA, I had been accepted. I was good enough to get into RADA. I was a DRAMA student! The day was already bright with sunshine, now it was dazzling. I was radiant, I was walking on air. Now everything was in place, I had a future; I was going to RADA to train to be an actress. My name was already in lights ... I even got the West Sussex County Council grant, which would pay for my fees and give me £5 a week living allowance.

  One of the best things was hearing the most important news of my life thus far from my mother. She told me, “We’ll celebrate when you come out for the day next weekend, darling. We’ll have your favourite lunch and we will open that bottle of Mateus Rose Aunt Bet gave us for Christmas. You clever, clever girl – Daddy and I are so proud of you!” It was a novel feeling to hear her pride, because she was here to voice it.

  FIFTEEN

  Look, Move, Speak

  I started at RADA nine days before my seventeenth birthday Of course, I felt adult – a drama student – but it was not long before I realised how young I was for my age. I had been protected in an all-girl environment, never met any boys, I didn’t know much about drama, nothing at all about life and here I was with everyone older than me, prettier, more confident; many had been to university, some were married. I was suddenly conscious of my clumpy legs, my baby
voice, my middle class-ness and my Sussex boarding school accent. I bit my nails, wore no makeup and my first day in tights for movement class was like being stripped naked and being thrown into a bear pit. Of course, all the other students were just as self-conscious as I was and no one looked at me. They were too busy willing people not to look at them. I began to regret that I hadn’t heeded my parents’ advice and gone to some sort of college before I came here. Every year at school I had won the Drama Cup, I’d had the leading role in nearly all the school plays. I had been the big fish in a tiny pond. Now here I was a minnow in a huge ocean without, it seemed, the ability to swim.

  All my reports said “Despite being so very young ...” “Isla is such a young student...” “When Isla is more mature ...” I tried hard, but didn’t know what Yat Malmgren was talking about with the Laban Theory. I never seemed to have enough breath in Catherine Fleming’s voice class and Shakespeare suddenly became technical, so I stopped understanding it. Mary Phillips, who taught mime, made me stiff with inhibition and fear. But it was more than fear that I felt for Anthony Hopkins and another classmate, Victor Henry (known then in class as Alex). I was terrified of them. They drank heavily when classes were over and would smell of alcohol in the mornings. They had an air of anger, not always suppressed, and they were really talented – they seemed to be able to do anything, they had such passion, an instinctive raw ability to make whatever they did utterly truthful. Anthony was a very good mimic, which was funny, but scary, too, as you never knew when you’d be the object of his observation. I was so easy to mimic and mock with my posh girl’s vowels and my primness. But he didn’t “do” me – I doubt if he even noticed I was in the same class. Well, of course, I wasn’t ... in the same class; he was towering and powerful, unpredictable and unafraid. So was Alex. I seemed like a well bred mouse in comparison, with no talent at all, not even a voice.

  On one occasion, in the mime class given by the stiff and terrifying Mary Phillips, she of the cold eyes and, I thought, cold heart, we were told that we all had to mime an animal of our choice that we had observed and the rest of the class had to guess what we were supposed to be. I chose something pathetic and sugary like a fawn or a lamb or something and got the scathing comments from Miss Phillips that I’m sure I deserved; I had been rigid with inhibition throughout, anyway. It was Tony’s turn.

  He sat in front of Miss Phillips staring at her. He never broke his gaze and he didn’t move a muscle. We began to shift uneasily. So did Miss Phillips. Eventually when several minutes had passed, she said. “This is a mime class, Anthony, you are supposed to be improvising a mime.”

  “I am, Miss Phillips. I am a rabbit being hypnotised by a snake.” The class ended. Tony became our hero.

  The end of the first term drew to a close with a promise of a RADA Ball at the Savoy Hotel – the cabaret was to be the “Beyond the Fringe” guys, which caused a great flurry. I was relieved the term was over and excited by the prospect of the Ball.

  About five of us girls were to stay in Lynne Ashcroft’s house in Kentish Town. I was commuting to Horsham each day and didn’t know London at all. My mother and I had hunted the shops in Horsham, Crawley, even Brighton for a dress.

  “If it’s a Ball, you will need a ball gown, a party frock won’t do,” my mother said, and we settled on a long white organza dress with a full skirt with deep pink hydrangeas all over it. It was rather crinoline-y and “Gone with the Wind”. It sort of whooshed and rustled when I moved, with masses of underskirts, and I thought I looked like Grace Kelly in High Society. I wore my mother’s long white kid gloves, my right hand self-consciously covering the tiny gravy stain on the left as I made my entrance at the Savoy. Almost at once I realised my dress was all wrong. It looked as if I had borrowed it from my mother, along with her gloves, was far too old for me, and seemed from another century; my friends were in short black numbers and wore bright red lipstick or slinky red sheaths with high black heels and glossy stockings.

  We greeted each other and some of the girls seemed embarrassed to be with me, as if I somehow spoilt their image, just by being in their company. No one asked me to dance, no one – which was sad, because I was quite a good dancer and I longed to dance. I had a little bit of the buffet, but had no appetite at all. I didn’t drink either – I was encased in a bubble of humiliated misery. I went to the loo for long stretches, but had to keep going back to see if it got any better, if anyone would notice me, or want to be with me. They didn’t. I sat all the time on my own, smiling, pretending enjoyment.

  I watched the cabaret of excerpts from “Beyond the Fringe” and as soon as I could, I rushed away and got in a taxi to Kentish Town (my first taxi on my own – my Dad had given me money “in case you get separated and need it”).

  I arrived in the darkened house and found my way to my mattress on the floor in Lynne’s room. The tightness around my chin and the lump in my throat gave way to great gulping sobs of disappointment, humiliation and grief at being so plain and undesirable, so young and babyish, at being a wallflower – well actually, a great pink hydrangea – at being such a failure at my first big social event.

  I heard the others return in the early hours as they whispered, a bit drunkenly, and did lots of sh-shushing and “Isla’s asleep.” But I wasn’t. I just couldn’t face the post mortem of their triumph, my lack of it, their fun and my failure.

  It was very dark as I left Lynne’s house with my overnight case and offending hydrangea dress in its bag and walked down the hill to the tube station. It can’t have been later than 6.30 a.m. I left a note and Christmas cards for Lynne and Cath and the others, expressing how “jolly” it had been, but “I felt rather poorly and I had to be home early ...” It was a bit lame and I’m sure no one believed me, but they soon forgot. Here were the holidays and in a few weeks we’d begin another term. Oh God! Another term...

  I never wore the hydrangea dress again and I never told my parents what a disaster it had been, I had been, although they guessed from my “trying too hard to be jolly’” expression and my lack of details about the Ball. What had seemed an appropriate dress had come from my mother’s era of elegance, a time warp of early ‘50s and this was the liberated ‘60s; her choice had pulled me into her world and I didn’t yet know how to cross the bridge into mine. Many years later, I found the dress in my mother’s attic – still in its muslin cover and wrapped in tissue. I realised the hydrangeas weren’t pink, but a delicate dusky lilac with soft green leaves. It was, in fact, very lovely – but its soft filminess held the scent of anguish and defeat, and wrapped in its layers of petticoats were tears of humiliation and just holding it brought the hurt back. It went to a charity shop.

  My first term at RADA had been a trial for me. I was wretchedly miserable about everything. There was nothing I was any good at. I was the baby, naive, a virgin, I didn’t drink or smoke, I was too young to be allowed into a pub anyway. I was wet, and I had the wrong accent for 1960. I sat alone in the canteen at lunchtime, longing to wear black eye liner and white lipstick like some of the other girls. I tried it, but the black eye liner was wrong for the shape of my eyes and closed them right up and the white lipstick looked as if I’d burnt my lips and had applied Germolene and Jackie and Lynne laughed. Not unkindly, but they laughed. My clothes were un-cool and looked as if they belonged to my mother. Some of them actually did: a grey flannel pencil skirt that I wore with a wide elastic belt and a grey and white striped blouse that looked, I thought, rather New York business woman. In fact, it looked like my mother’s borrowed blouse. I was fearful all the time, of not keeping up, being humiliated by not understanding, or just not being any good, of looking wrong and sounding wrong and thinking wrong. I couldn’t do the breathing in voice classes and I didn’t understand what I was supposed to be doing in movement classes, which were taken by Mr Fettes – a frightening man who wore black leather trousers, the first I’d ever seen, and who shouted things like “Punch, punch, dab, dab. Now slash, slash,” as my tights-clad
legs flailed in the air out of time with everyone else. One day, I overheard him speaking to another teacher, the elderly Shakespeare teacher, Nell Carter, about me.

  “What on earth were they thinking of allowing her to come here? She’s far too young; she should have waited at least a couple of years. It’s unfair to her, she can’t keep up – and I’m not even sure she has any talent.”

  Miss Carter said something like “Give her a chance, it’s only her first term ...”

  I didn’t really hear any more, because I was too mortified by Mr Fettes’ comments, for he was only voicing what I was starting to believe myself. I was out of place here, I was lonely, I was self conscious, I should never have come – maybe they had made a mistake in accepting me and I felt certain they were going to ask me to leave. And all the misery of it had culminated in that hateful ball. I would always be out of place here, so I would leave before they chucked me out.

  My decision leaked out to my parents two days into the Christmas holidays. Mum and I had been shopping in Horsham and she asked me if I needed anything new for the next RADA term.

  “I won’t be needing anything, because I’m not going back.”

  Mum stopped walking, looked at me, hugged me without speaking and propelled me to Wakefields in the High Street for a coffee, where it all came out in great gulps of shame and defeat. She gave me her handkerchief and told me to blow my nose and forget about the coffee, we’d go home and talk about it there.

  I told her about my loneliness and self-consciousness and how I was rubbish at everything and I thought they were probably going to ask me to leave. I couldn’t go back, because everyone knew I was the worst in the class, I would never make an actress and nobody ever wanted to partner up with me, I felt that everyone was laughing at me anyway. Mum hugged me again and said if I didn’t want to go back, then I didn’t have to, there were plenty of things I could do with my life. I think she was secretly relieved that this whole actress/theatre business was coming to an end, that although it had lasted a long time, perhaps it was just a phase after all. We awaited my father’s return.