by Lisa Gee
After we’d returned home, I called the Jerwood Space. I explained that my daughter would be rehearsing there and asked if they had a wireless network that the public could access. The man who answered was very helpful. Although they didn’t have a public network, I might be able to get on to one of the local ones, but failing that, if I asked very nicely, they’d let me access the Jerwood Space office one. Sorted, I thought. Then I knuckled down to my own work. I was quite busy that week: there was a research report to write up and some training to plan.
The following day, I emailed Jo to ask about what Dora should wear on her feet for rehearsals – I thought trainers would probably be okay, but wanted to check that I wasn’t required to provide some obscure variety of dance shoe that I’d never heard of. Trainers would be fine, she responded. That evening, after Dora and I had taken a swift trip to Brent Cross Shopping Centre to kit her out in cheap-but-comfy rehearsal clothing, another email arrived. A rejigged team list was attached – the teams no longer red, green and blue, but now (respectively) Mittens, Kettles and Geese. Dora was still in Mittens, but was now the Gretl, and several of the other members had changed. The Marta in her team was now Molly-May, the little girl whose hand she was holding when they emerged from the sorting. Olivia and Alicia – Jackie’s daughters – were now both in the same team (Geese). That’ll make her life easier, I thought. Jo wrote, ‘I really hope it doesn’t change but actually I think it will!’ She also told us that they weren’t yet sure how the four Gretls’ performances would be scheduled across the three teams. And that they hadn’t yet decided whether the teams would perform three days on and six days off, or two days on and four days off. The director, she told us, was also very concerned that the children should treat the rehearsal process as a big secret that they kept from us until we saw them on stage. Parental influence on their performance had to be kept to a minimum. On top of that, ‘We have been asked not to hang around in the coffee bar there so I am afraid it will be much like the theatre – drop and run!’ I needed to find another café to sit and work in.
The next day, another email arrived: Jo didn’t yet know which children would be off on which afternoon the following week, but was trying to find out. The next day, another email: the first with the actual address of the Jerwood Space: not all parents had done what I’d done and hit Google the minute we’d been given the name of the venue, and someone had, sensibly, asked Jo for details. ‘All children,’ she added, ‘should come with packed lunch and drinks. Russ and Rebecca will be there to meet the kids.’
Russ and Rebecca would be chaperoning the children. Russ was the smiley man with grey hair, tattoos and a measuring stick who we’d met briefly in the original audition queue outside the London Palladium. Rebecca was the gentle, white-blonde girl who I’d seen taking the three small girls to the loo at the final audition. She was, it turned out, Jo’s daughter and used to work in a nursery. Russ – a former brickie – seemed, at first sight, a much more unlikely chaperone.
He and his wife Linda (who also chaperoned on the show once performances were underway) had moved from Middlesbrough to London when their daughter Claire was eight, so she could attend Sylvia’s (as those in the biz call the Sylvia Young Theatre School). Claire had started dancing at two and a half, and heard about the school from other children at dance competitions. ‘Originally,’ Linda told me, ‘we didn’t intend for her to go full time. We just thought we’d put her on the agency. But we let her audition, because we wanted them to see what she could do, and she was offered a place. And we thought, she’s done her bit. We can’t disappoint her and say you can’t go. So, because we only had Claire to consider, we decided we’d sell up and move to London.’
Linda – then a careers adviser – found a new job down south, and also took in children from the school as boarders. Russ was working for ICI, and the company promised him a transfer to London. But it never materialised, so every weekend Linda and Claire would commute back up north to see him. Until, that was, a year or so later when a ballet teacher at the school noticed a slight tilt to Claire’s spine. After a variety of comparatively unintrusive therapies proved ineffective, doctors did a thorough investigation and discovered a tumour in her chest cavity that had broken through into the spinal cord.
‘They called us in,’ said Russ, ‘and sat us down. Then the doctor said, “I must tell you, Claire’s going to be a paraplegic. She could possibly die.”’
Russ and Linda then had to break the news to Claire (who asked her dad whether he’d cried – ‘I said “yes, but only because I’ve just bought you some new shoes and they’ll be wasted”’ – and told her parents firmly that she wasn’t going to be paralysed) and also explain to Sylvia Young that Claire would have to leave the school. ‘And Sylvia said, “No she won’t. We’ll fix things up. Even if she can’t walk, there’s people here, big strong boys, she still comes back to this school”,’ Russ recalled. ‘We thought that was amazing.’
‘The school were really very good,’ said Linda. ‘When Claire was in hospital, the headmistress used to come and massage her feet. Matron would come and brush her hair. Sylvia used to visit and all the kids used to come up and bring her things.’
Claire carried on working in the theatre up until the time of her operation, and then between periods of hospitalisation. Both school and production companies proved hugely supportive. On one show, they even employed an understudy for her – something almost unheard of in live theatre, as the teams of children cover for each other. There was no thought of Claire stopping, either before or afterwards, and today, in her early thirties, she’s still an avid performer, with an MA in Theatre Studies and Education under her belt. ‘Once she’s finished her acting,’ Linda told me, ‘she’d like to teach special needs children.’
It was while Claire was in hospital that Russ discovered his new vocation. ‘That’s how I got to love children. I’ve always liked kids, but it gave me the insight into them. In the cancer ward, where Claire was, I used to sit up with these children till twelve o’clock at night, talking, and they used to ask me about my life up north, I used to have games with them, and persuade them to take their medication. It was hard, because there they’d be going, “Why should I? I’m going to die anyway.”’ He now works as a chaperone for children performing in film, television and theatre, obviously loves his work, and the kids (and parents) adore him.
‘My life’s completely changed. If you ever go to the north-east, you’ll see. Men: bars; women: lounge. They don’t kiss anybody on the cheeks, nowt like that. It just completely opened my mind to theatre, to travelling, food and stuff. I’ve really enjoyed it. At first, I was homesick. But I would do it again.’
I studied my A–Z to make sure Dora and I wouldn’t get lost on the way to the Jerwood Space. It seemed a pretty straightforward journey: out of Southwark station, across the road, then we would be on the right street, keep walking, cross a couple more roads and we’d be there. It would take between five minutes and half an hour depending on the number of distractions en route.
‘Can I go in there?’ asked Dora, Scooby-Doo backpack bobbing as she held my hand, skipped across the first road and pointed at a revolving door. As it was revolving on the threshold of a very big and swish-looking office block, in direct eyeline of a very broad-shouldered and scary-looking security guard, I said ‘no’. Her pleading stopped when she noticed that some of the building, supported by concrete pillars, overhung a strip of cobblestones next to the pavement. Because the road sloped slightly upwards, the overhang sloped down to meet the ground. If you were quite small, and into that kind of thing, you could walk underneath, crouching lower and lower, and get as close as possible to the point where overhang and ground intersected, ignoring your mother while she hissed at you to come out quickly because you had a rehearsal to get to when what she really meant but was too embarrassed to say, because the rational part of her knew that it wasn’t going to happen, was ‘come out quickly because I’m anxious that the sticky-o
ut bit of that building’s going to collapse on top of you, because I can’t see enough things holding it up’.
Then there was a boring stretch, until you came to the café attached to the little theatre under the railway arches, where, if you were desperate for the loo or a chocolate muffin, you could get both. A bit more walking and you were on the stretch of Union Street where the Jerwood Space is. On that corner we found something else interesting to look into: an open-plan basement office, where several of the desks had cuddly toys or model cars on them. Dora had great fun counting how many desks had toys on them and, later in the month, moved on to trying to see what snacks the workers had brought in with them: ‘Ooh. Look! She’s got two packets of crisps. And a banana. Can I have a packet of crisps, please?’ Then, a few doors along, there was a French horn shop. When that was open, you could peer through the dusty windows and see lots of French horns hanging on the basement walls. But the best thing about it was the door handles. These were brass and mini-French-horn-shaped.
We crossed Union Street and entered the Jerwood Space. The reception area was light and airy and opened on to two gallery spaces – one to the left that you had to go through a doorway to get into, and another on the right, which was part of the same room. Diagonally to our right was a café with a glass roof. We spotted a couple of other Sound of Music kids and their parents in there, and went to join them. Rebecca was sitting at one of the tables and she ticked off Dora’s name as we said hello.
The glass-roofed area was soon buzzing with excited children and parents. Dora was feeling slightly shy and snuggled into my lap. I was feeling slightly shy too, but made small talk with Nicky, whose daughter Lauren was another Gretl, and who was even earlier than we were. There were two other doors out of where we were sitting: one led outside to a walled-in patio, the other into the serving area of the café, where there was more seating. Peering through, I wondered if, amongst the people sitting chatting, were some of the adult cast members and creative team. I didn’t recognise anyone, but then I didn’t expect to.
Once Russ had appeared and he and Rebecca had whisked the children, their nutritious packed lunches and extra drinks off into the rehearsal rooms, some of the parents had to rush off to work, but others amongst us started getting to know each other. Shana stayed around, as it would take too long and be too expensive for her to return to Southend and then come back again to collect Adrianna. Carol, whose son Michael was one of the Kurts, also stayed, as did Lynn. There was another woman who, like Shana, was pretty, with immaculate shoulder-length brown hair, and beautifully turned out. She turned out to be Molly-May’s mum, Helen. Because travelling home and back again to collect Dora would have eaten another two hours out of my working day, it made more sense for me to find somewhere local to sit and get on with it. That way I would still lose two hours, but much more enjoyably. Wendy had brought Yasmin in, and offered to come with me on the hunt for a suitable café that could, for the next month, serve as my temporary office. Before heading off in different directions, a bunch of us wound up our conversations outside the Jerwood Space. ‘Oh look,’ said someone. ‘There’s Andrew Lloyd Webber.’ I turned for a quick stare. He’d gone. The door was still swinging.
It wasn’t long before we discovered Café Arlington round the corner on Southwark Bridge Road. Along with reasonably priced food and drink, it offered – the clincher – that irresistible combination of comfy sofas and free wifi. Result! We settled down for coffee and a chat. Later, I got down to some work, and Wendy went off for a wander. Then I was joined by Lynn, Carol and Shana and we talked some more. At one point, Helen popped in. Then they left, and I did some more work. I now knew what they all did: Lynn was taking a year out after being made redundant from her human resources job. Wendy, I already knew, worked as a teaching assistant at Yasmin’s school. Shana and Helen were very busy and dedicated mothers and housewives. And Carol – a lively and abundant redhead with a huge laugh – was one quarter of a Lincolnshire-based ABBA tribute band. Lincolnshire?
‘Yes. I must be bonkers,’ she laughed. ‘When Michael got the part, I bought this tiny flat in Harrow. It’s so small, I put the hoover away almost as soon as I’ve got it out! The freeholder lives upstairs and is really weird, never smiles. And once a month I’ll be getting the train back up to Cleethorpes so I can see my older son and do some work.’ We laughed, and I wondered if I would ever go so far as to move across the country to make it possible for Dora to chase her dreams before she was old enough to follow them under her own steam. I decided I probably wouldn’t, but then she was only six. Maybe I’d change my mind when she was in her teens and a hundred per cent certain. Have to wait and see.
Molly-May had also travelled quite a distance to take up her part – she lives with her mum Helen and teenage twin sisters near Harrogate, but while she was rehearsing and performing would be staying with her dad, who lives in west London, where she would be tutored by a family friend.
Soon after 4.30, an email arrived from Jo, providing a rehearsal schedule for the rest of the week. Dora was due to be there Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons and Saturday morning. I dutifully emailed through the details to Dora’s school even though everything was ‘subject to change, of course’, and a little later I packed my laptop away and moseyed back to the Jerwood. I hadn’t got through half the work I’d planned to, but I’d started to get to know some of the other stage mums, and been pleasantly surprised. None of them seemed to be the viciously competitive, fiercely pushy, cheerfully two-faced, hissy-fit-prone types I’d been expecting. Of course, this was only the first rehearsal, and it was possible that they were all just very good at being two-faced … As Russ commented, eyes twinkling, ‘Oh, you’re all good friends now. But we’ll see when they pick the kids for the opening night. That’s when the true colours come out.’
Early back, I strolled round looking at the artwork on display, and picked up an information sheet about them, which I didn’t read. Soon, other parents arrived, and we sat and waited in the glazed café area, some making small talk, others reading newspapers.
Then Russ and Rebecca brought the kids out. ‘I’m hungry,’ said Dora, who was struggling with her backpack, lunch bag, jacket and two thick manuscripts whilst simultaneously trying to hold Molly-May’s hand. ‘Can I go to Molly-May’s house?’ Realising that I’d only given her the same amount of food as when she went to school, I was hit by a sudden pang of guilt. Usually by this time she’d also have demolished a snacky tea (if she’d eaten all the healthy food in her lunch box) and be asking what was for supper. I wrestled the wodges of paper into her backpack. ‘We need to put them in a file. And I have to bring a pencil and a rubber so I can make notes,’ she told me. I promised her something for the journey home, hoping that would distract her from her request for a play-date, which I completely ignored. We walked back to Southwark station with a few of the other kids (back under the overhanging building, me controlling my anxiety), said goodbye, then crossed over The Cut to find a snack.
On the train on the way home I looked at the manuscripts – script and score – and asked Dora about what had happened. I found out that they’d all been in a big room, and Andrew Lloyd Webber (who had really been there this time) and David Ian had welcomed them and shown them some pictures of what the stage would look like. ‘But we’re not allowed to tell you because it’s a secret.’ Then they’d started on the songs. It had all been very exciting, except that someone had been wearing the same trousers as Dora.
After making a round of phone calls to let people know how the first day had gone, I stayed up late that night browsing the script and looking at the musical score. An email from Jo Hawes arrived at twenty past midnight, saying that the following day’s rehearsal would finish half an hour earlier than she’d previously told us, confirming Dora’s need of pencil and rubber (I thought she’d better take two pencils and a sharpener as well, and also another rubber) and asking us to make sure that the children arrive at the rehearsal ‘having e
aten so that they can give their best to the job in hand. Also,’ Jo added, ‘looking ahead, when we are in the theatre and they are coming in for an evening show, it is really important that they have a decent meal in between school and arriving at the theatre. They will fill up on junk otherwise and that is not a good way to do a performance.’ Quite.
Next day, Dora had school in the morning and I picked her up before lunch to make sure she ate a proper, balanced meal. And then, ring-bindered script and score, pencils, rubber and sharpener in her back pack, laptop and Harry Potter in mine, we trundled off to the Jerwood Space. The noise in the glasshouse seating area was even louder that afternoon – some of the children already knew each other from school or previous theatre performances, but those that didn’t had started to make friends and were chatting and laughing noisily with them. Or playing tag and shrieking in happy disregard of all the Jerwood Space’s other customers. A few of us headed off to Café Arlington together for a drink, a gossip and a laugh, and I managed to squeeze in a token stab at some work.
That afternoon, another email from Jo, confirming the following day’s rehearsal. On Wednesday (same routine), three emails. The first confirmed Thursday’s times, the second had, in the subject field, ‘A whinge from Jo!!’ Oh no! What had I done wrong? What had Dora done wrong? Was there a packed lunch problem? Had she bitten someone? Had I bitten someone without realising? No. It turned out that Jo was cross because a couple of the parents with older children in the production had asked if their kids could be allowed to make their own way home. These teenagers were accustomed to travelling long distances to and from school, as well as embarking on all kinds of solo adventures in their spare time. But whatever degree of freedom young people are permitted in normal circumstances, it’s different when they’re working in the entertainment industry, under licence. Then it’s against the law for them to travel alone. If, Jo pointed out, she and the chaperones allowed any of the kids to slope off by themselves and got caught in the process, it could lead to all the licences being revoked ‘and bingo – Captain von Trapp has no children!’ Which would, obviously, be a bad thing.
