by Lisa Gee
On the Monday before the show was due to start previewing, Alicia, not Dora, rehearsed with Mittens and Dora rehearsed with everyone else later. On the Tuesday everyone went in at the same time, all day. An email arrived from Jo Hawes telling us what would be likely to happen on Wednesday, 1 November (to be confirmed later), with the addendum:
If you are all tearing your hair out hurling the computer at the wall cursing that you ever got involved in this at all – please remember that I did tell you these two weeks would be awful! Once we are running it will all be lovely!! There will be rehearsals on some afternoons during previews, though, I am afraid.
Actually, the technical rehearsals hadn’t been that bad. Tiring, yes, and tantrum-inducing, but nowhere near as boring as we’d been warned. Dora had, however, been slightly miffed at missing out on the Hallowe’en trick-or-treating experience. Immediately – and rather previously – she started thinking about which Harry Potter character she’d dress up as for next Hallowe’en, and continued to do so over the next twelve months. The following September she was still vacillating between being Hermione Granger and professors Dumbledore, Snape or Umbridge. By the middle of October 2007 she’d made up her mind and we started planning her Professor Snape outfit.
Anyway, I had a lot of fun during tech week. The mums had been hanging out together. We’d colonised Café Libre, which was next to the stage door, and spent lots of time and money eating, drinking and gossiping. We swapped stories our children had told us, shared the funny things our kids had said about each other – particularly useful for those of us with smaller children – and giggled at their small naughtinesses. We didn’t only do this when we met either. Phone bills were rising. There just seemed to be so much to talk about – and for some reason no one else we knew wanted to go into quite the same level of detail, quite as often, as most of us did. We expended a great deal of time and energy speculating about who would do opening night – my money was on Kettles and Adrianna – and about whether we’d get to go to the party. Having been swotting up a bit, I reckoned we wouldn’t be invited. But when I asked Russ, it turned out I was wrong. ‘Do you really think,’ he asked, ‘that I want to be chaperoning your children that night?’
There were other highlights too. One day during the technicals, Pippa, Piers’ mum (he was the Kurt in Kettles), and I were walking up Argyll Street, heading for the underground and deep in conversation when we heard music. The children – all of them – and the orchestra were rehearsing together for the first time and someone had, accidentally, left all the windows open. Sheer exuberance poured out. The singing sounded heavenly: extra delicious because unexpected. Pippa and I held on to each other, squealed with delight, and stood there transfixed. ‘I don’t think we’re supposed to be hearing this,’ Pippa whispered.
At a quarter to one on Wednesday morning, Jo emailed through the first hints of who would be doing what and when. Mittens and Adrianna were to arrive early the following morning, to be joined by everyone else at lunchtime. The early arrivals were to break at 5.30 p.m. ‘and have an early night’. She then gave an educated guess at the timetable for the rest of the week, including the first two previews. Twenty minutes later, she sent through the first scheduling information. There were still a lot of gaps on the Gretl front, but at least we now knew when our daughters’ first few shows would be. Mittens and Adrianna were to do both the first preview and the opening night. Dora was slated to do her first show four days later, with Kettles – ‘Fantastic!’ I told her the next day, to counter the slight disappointment she felt about not doing her first shows with the team she’d been rehearsing with. ‘You get to be with Molly-May!’ The electronic press kit would be filmed that night, which meant that when clips of the show appeared on TV, it would be Kettles and Dora that everyone would see. Then she was due to do a show with Geese on the 17th, which would be preceded by filming for Children in Need at the BBC. There were a lot of dates where the Gretls were still to be confirmed.
Early that evening Jo sent through the first full schedule, which had the Gretls filled in for the first couple of weeks, and Alicia was now timetabled to do the Royal Variety Show with Kettles. ‘Hi to all!’ Jo wrote. ‘Attached is a schedule with all sorts of publicity etc. on it … You will find lots of things to look forward to – the Royal Variety, the EPK, the press photocall, Blue Peter, New Year Live and Children in Need. These are all being fairly distributed amongst the children which is great.’ And it was. On some shows, Russ told us, one team gets to do everything, which, inevitably, affects relationships between children – and between parents.
Dora was now due to start on the 6th, still with Molly-May’s team, and would do several more shows. Also included in Jo’s email was the news that everyone whose children weren’t doing press night would – assuming that there were any left for the night we wanted to go – receive a pair of top-priced complimentary tickets to the show of our choice (one that our child was performing in, obviously). That was a bit of unexpected munificence on the part of the producers – and not something that happens on many shows. We would also be given two tickets to the opening night, one for our child and one for a parent to chaperone, plus two invitations to the party. The people whose kids were on for press night would receive one ticket for the show and two invitations for the party, one of which was for their child.
Although this was great for those of us whose kids weren’t doing press night, it seemed unfair on those whose kids were – as if they were being penalised because their children were the best. We would get three tickets to their one. Jackie and Scott, having two children in the show, merited four opening night tickets and invitations to the party, as well as two sets of comps for other shows. They tried to act in solidarity with their friends and offered one set of their opening night tickets and invitations to the opening night families, but got told off by Russ, who said they both needed to be there to ensure Olivia and Alicia were properly chaperoned.
Being picked to perform on opening night is an amazing coup for a child – and also for their parents. Especially if you’re deeply immersed in the world of performing children – which, by then, most of us were. If you zoom out and manage to keep a proper sense of perspective, it’s not. All people need food, drink, shelter and love. Some people – children included – are driven to perform and, like anyone else, are happiest when they’re doing the thing they love doing. But no small child needs to be in a West End production, let alone opening it. And even though so many of us parents were completely obsessed with the show to the point of neglecting our homes, partners and jobs, no one lost that sense of perspective. Lynn, whose daughter Grace played Brigitta on press night, was surprised. ‘I was expecting animosity,’ she told me. ‘But everyone was lovely.’ It helped that we liked each other and were genuinely happy for each other’s children. A couple of the parents of the older ones reported their kid being miffed that their team wasn’t chosen. But as one of them said, ‘I told her, “They pick their bankers for the first night. The ones they’re certain of. And this time it wasn’t you. Tough, but that’s it.”’ Russ said that one of the reasons he loves working with the little ones is that they don’t care who does press night. ‘The first time they’re on it’s their first night and they’re just really excited about that.’
I was neither surprised nor upset that Dora hadn’t been chosen for the opening show. As the youngest Gretl, with the least performing experience, I had never expected her to be, and had I been responsible for choosing, I wouldn’t have picked her. She’d never done any live theatre before and was a whole year younger than the oldest of the four (Adrianna). At six and seven, that’s a big difference. Irrespective of how good any of them were compared to each other – and later reports from the parents of older kids who saw all the Gretls perform suggested that although they all brought their own style to the part, there was nothing to choose between them in the talent stakes – there was no knowing if a child that young, who had never done it before, would actu
ally deliver on the stage, in front of an audience, the first time she got up there.
Naturally, my inner stage mother disagreed with the rest of me. She was adamant that Dora was the best Gretl and the dead cert for opening night and couldn’t understand how the responsible parties could consider anyone else. But on this occasion, because she was so obviously wrong, I was in control. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have jumped up and down, shrieked and been hugely thrilled and proud if Dora had been picked. I would. I also wouldn’t have slept the night I’d found out, or for a few nights before the actual event, partly from the excitement and partly from the worry about all the things that could possibly go wrong: how wonderful the experience could be and also, should Dora get something wrong, how humiliatingly awful and scarring it could prove.
The fact that Dora wasn’t doing opening night didn’t mean that I was sleeping soundly, though. There was plenty for me still to feel anxious about. Getting tickets, for instance. On the Thursday (my birthday), I ordered a pair of comps for me and Laurie for the following Monday, which would be Dora’s first night. There was, as yet, no news on whether the people who’d ordered theirs for the Friday and Saturday previews would get any. I’m not very good at waiting for things to happen, especially if there’s a chance I might miss out. So I emailed Jo anxiously to say that if she thought she wouldn’t be able to get them for me, I’d buy some from the box office. She replied to say that I wouldn’t be able to get any from the box office. Fortunately, I’d already checked online and knew that there were still a few seats available. Because the thought of not being able to watch Dora on her first night was unbearable, I bought a couple in the upper circle. After that, I could sleep. Even if all we would be able to see was a tiny speck on the stage, at least we’d be there.
The previews turned out to be more eventful than anyone had anticipated. Dora had the Friday off from the show – she was at school – so I had to rely on the other mums for news from the dress rehearsal and the first preview. The dress rehearsal turned out to be open to the public, who were allowed in gratis. If only I’d known … Unfortunately, the set broke down, so they could only run half the show.
Although they didn’t find out until Friday afternoon, which was when the unused VIP tickets were returned for resale, all the parents whose kids were on that night and Saturday managed to secure the seats they wanted. I figured I’d probably be safe for Monday night and so rang my Auntie Ruth to ask whether, if my complimentary tickets were forthcoming, she would like the ones I’d bought. I warned her that she’d probably have to be on standby, as I was unlikely to hear until the last minute whether I’d be getting my comps. She was delighted. Meanwhile, I’d also booked to sit in the upper circle with my sister, her husband, Dora’s two cousins and my father on Dora’s second night, the 7th. This would mean rushing back from Birmingham, where I would be running a training course for librarians – but it couldn’t be helped.
The first preview went off without any technical hitch, the kids were, by all accounts, brilliant, and Connie Fisher proved herself, silencing almost all the critics who’d been disdainful that she was cast by a reality TV show. Whilst the private auditions that West End theatres rely on generally, but not inevitably, guarantee a high quality of performance, they make it very hard for new young performers to break in. Connie, as Andrew Lloyd Webber has pointed out, would never have won the role of Maria going through the traditional route. She had – despite her first-class degree from the Mountview Academy of Performing Arts, a top music theatre college – been unable to find work in her chosen profession and had been languishing in a telesales call centre for months prior to getting her big break. I didn’t attempt to say more than ‘hello’ to her on more than a couple of occasions. But she endeared herself to me by being genuinely kind to and fun with Dora and by responding lightning-quick when I said I liked one of the photos on her CD case: ‘It’s the best bit.’
Saturday morning, kids and parents congregated outside the stage door. When we arrived, a gaggle of kids were posing while a small man was taking photos on his mobile phone. I glanced at him and thought he looked slightly odd – not quite all there – but harmless enough. Dora ran to huddle in with the other children, and I joined a couple of the parents for a chat. The man carried on taking photos. And on and on. It started to feel a bit uncomfortable and increasingly inappropriate. ‘This isn’t right,’ said Piers’s mum Pippa, to Lauren’s dad Graham – the biggest dad there. ‘Do something.’ Graham did. He asked the man to stop, and when he became difficult, grabbed his phone and, having deleted all the pictures of our children and checked through what was left of his photo gallery, performed a citizen’s arrest and marched him off to find the nearest policeman. When he returned a few minutes later, Graham told us that elsewhere in the gallery were pictures the man had taken when he was following young girls round and sticking his phone up their skirts. ‘I had to use reasonable force,’ he said ruefully, rubbing his hands, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t have come with me.’ The man was taken to a police station and released on bail the following day pending further investigation. No charges were ever brought. ‘If a licensed chaperone had been there,’ Jo Hawes later told me, ‘it would never have happened. They wouldn’t have allowed it.’ In fact Pippa – the parent whose antennae were finely enough tuned to get the man stopped – does sometimes work as a chaperone. ‘It just goes to show,’ said Mark Williams-Thomas when I told him about this incident, ‘these are people who are part of your community. People who children will talk to.’
We all became much more vigilant after that, much less inclined to let anyone take photos of our kids outside the stage door, although I did once make an exception for Sister Mary – a bona fide nun, in full regalia, all the way from the American Midwest – who watched the show with me one night. ‘This is a wimple,’ she whispered, gently waving a corner of hers at me while Lesley Garrett and her co-nuns trilled the relevant line of ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?’. It also made me think about all the dangers Dora and her friends would face working in the theatre. As they were being so well looked after by the chaperones, actual physical assault seemed highly unlikely, but accidents didn’t. Theatres are hazardous places. There are orchestra pits to plummet into if you get over-excited when you run forward to take a bow. There are concrete staircases to fall down. Lots of electric things and complex machinery to get your limbs excruciatingly caught in – which happened to one of the adult actors during the previews of The Lord of the Rings when it opened a few months later and the set tried to eat his leg – and props and scenery that can fall on top of you. Injuries happen. People – even sensible grown-ups – get hurt, badly, working in theatres.
On Sunday Jo emailed us with the schedule for the next couple of days. She also included a thank you for the kids – and for us.
I would like to say that I think the children have been fantastic especially during the last two weeks when things are difficult, slow, boring for them and generally trying! So well done to them! I am also fully aware of the way that this sort of commitment turns family life upside down so thank you to all of you as well. You get all the hard bits, travelling, sudden changes of schedule, midnight emails, tetchy children (and children’s administrators!) etc. and the kids get all the glory! It will now start settling down and we can look forward to a period of relative calmness!
The same day, having been told by a helpful parent that it was traditional to give cards and/or small first-night pressies to other cast members, I bought some blank craft cards from Smith’s and ‘encouraged’ Dora to design something to go on the front. We discussed whether it should be a picture or some words. Eventually she settled on ‘You’re brilliant’ in coloured-in bubble writing. I checked after she’d done the first, pencilled words, and made her rub out ‘Your’ and replace it with ‘You’re’. She didn’t grumble too much. I scanned the finished design into the computer and printed out lots of copies. In our spare moments over the next few days, we g
lued them on to the fronts of the cards and added blobs of glitter, and with the tip of her tongue poking sideways out of her mouth as she attempted consistently legible joined-up messages, Dora wrote her good luck and love to her co-workers.
On the Monday, Jo sent through an email on ‘a sensitive issue’. Turns out some of the children had been gaining weight. What with all the sitting around during rehearsals, the snacks that they’d been sneaking into the theatre, the dinnertime trips to McDonald’s, not to mention the fact that they were doing less physical exercise than usual because they didn’t have the time or the energy, it wasn’t surprising. And could they please abstain from wearing mascara? Even though I felt she was a highly unlikely offender, I checked Dora’s eyelashes, just in case she’d sneaked into my ill-equipped make-up bag. She hadn’t, and was justifiably annoyed that I might have entertained the suspicion.
All the children were due in that Monday at 1 p.m. for a press photo shoot. As we were slightly early, on the way to the stage door, Dora and I popped into the box office to see if my tickets were there. They weren’t, so I asked the nice man behind the counter if he thought they might be forthcoming, and if so, when. He didn’t know, but helpfully informed me that they would be COBO’d a bit later. I asked what that meant. ‘Care. Of. Box. Office,’ he enunciated slowly and carefully. I wondered if I ought to write it down. Or maybe I should just keep a copy of The Great American Mousical with me so I could, at times like this, surreptitiously consult the glossary of theatrical terms and appear slightly better informed.
