by David Lines
5.10 p.m. Spend the next fifteen minutes gulping down two extra-large bottles of ice-cold dandelion and burdock. Thought it would be nice and soothing on my throat, but all it’s done is freeze my vocal cords. They feel like someone’s in there, squeezing them, and when I open my mouth to speak, all that comes out is a squeak. Nip outside for a fag to try and defrost them.
5.22 p.m. There’s real tension backstage now. If the power should fail tonight we need not worry – you could run the lighting off the electricity in the air. Nothing in particular’s happened, you can just taste it in the atmosphere.
5.58 p.m. Just over an hour to go and it’s hotting up good and proper. The entire cast seem to be wandering around each in their own little world, reciting their lines under their breath like they’re chanting a secret mantra. I’m doing it as well, and mid-flow am struck by the notion that I’m Percival Browne now. I’m Percival Browne for tonight and for the next six nights in a row and what I’m not going to be doing, is Being Paul Weller. It feels like I’m cheating on Paul, going with someone else behind his back. I put this stupid thought away in a cardboard box marked Idiot. I don’t need this now – what I need, is to concentrate.
6.10 p.m. Richard ‘Banger’ Jameson’s just sidled over and he’s carrying with him an enormous pair of lurid pink tights and wearing a look of complete and utter desperation. I don’t blame him, I’d look like that with those things under my arm.
‘All right, Linesy?’
‘All right, Banger. Not bad, you?’
‘Yeah. Kind of. I want to make you an offer.’
‘What sort of an offer? What are you on about?’
‘It’s quite straightforward – I want you to wear these tights for me.’
‘You perv.’
‘Look, I’m asking you nicely.’
‘You are a mad person.’
‘No I’m not, what I am, though, is feared by people in this school. They shit themselves when they see me coming and I like that, it works to my advantage. If I wear these tights on stage my reputation’ll go downhill quicker than Buster Bloodvessel in a fucking shopping trolley.’
He’s got a point, Banger will look like a prize dick. ‘I see what you mean, old son. That’s not the sort of fearsome image you want to be projecting.’
‘Too right. Especially when I’m looking to expand my interests into the dinner ticket business. Very lucrative, I’ll have you know, Linesy.’
‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
‘Easy. You give me your black tights for the fancy dress party scene and I give you my pink ones.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what’s in it for me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not right now, but let’s say you swap with me, lend me your nice, smooth, black tights, then one day, and that day may never come, but one day you may call on me for a favour and that favour will be granted. If you had a problem, then your problem would become my problem. If you had an enemy, then that man would become my enemy. And he would fear you. Capisce?’
‘Bless you.’
‘That’s Italian for do you fucking understand?’
‘Oh, right, yes – have my tights with pleasure. They’re all yours.’
‘Nice one. I won’t forget this.’
I go and try my new tights on. I don’t mind them, they’re much more Percival’s colour.
6.35 p.m. Tummy’s doing crazy cartwheels. I wonder if Paul feels butterflies like I do. These are proper nerves, and I can’t lose mine – I must stay cool. There’s some last minute set painting going on and repairs are being made to the trellis in the garden scene where that clown Harding fell through it and Lizzie’s lost her costume and everyone’s smoking and it’s just busy, busy, busy. I peep around the curtain to see if all the chairs have been put out yet and I’m astonished to find Mum, Dad, Chris and Phil seated smack in the front row. People are still putting chairs out behind them – how did they get in so early? Dad’s pouring two cups of coffee out of the tartan thermos and Mum’s busy unwrapping some sarnies from silver paper. Chris is lost in his Rubik’s cube and Phil’s reading a comic. They really don’t look like they want to be here for one second. Dad looks like Grampa from up here, and he suddenly looks up and we catch each other’s eye and I don’t know why, but we just do, we both look away instantly and I dive back behind the curtain. To make it easier, I think I’ll imagine that it’s Grampa Lines out there instead of Dad. He liked the stage, so I’ll do it for him.
6.48 p.m. Miss Rose appears. She’s Marshall Sapherson’s deputy and she’s running late, she was supposed to have Brylcreemed my hair back half an hour ago. Out comes the red and white tub, out comes the comb and then a handmirror and there, staring back at me is the face of Grampa Lines. I know that the theatre is supposed to be full of superstition, but I’ve seen a ghost this evening. I don’t mind, I’m not scared, I think this is a friendly one.
6.53 p.m. Still no sign of Kate. I’m almost in a blind panic – where is she? Half of me thinks she’s given it up because I might make her look crap next to me. Not even I could make Kate look crap. I try her dressing room but it’s deserted.
6.54 p.m. I’m beside myself. Drenched, dripping in cold sweat, I feel like I might pass out. I need oxygen, I’m a fish out of water and I crash through the fire doors out into the cool night air, drinking it in and feeling my heart thumping to get out.
I can’t believe it. There she is. Kate is in full make-up, full costume; a scarlet, satin, full-length evening gown with a red feather boa draped gracefully over her shoulders. Kate’s wearing red silk evening gloves up to her elbows and is smoking a cigarette in a holder with one hand and the other’s cradling a glass of white wine. She’s leaning against the wall, her hip out at an angle. Kate is stardom personified and I catch my breath as I catch sight of her. If I’m putting her on a pedestal then at least there’s a chance that I might be able to see up her dress.
‘Kate, you should come inside. It’s just seconds to curtain-up.’
Smoke leaves her lips and fills an empty sky. ‘Cool your heels, darling, I’m just getting into character. Now, be calm and just follow my lead …’
And with that she drops her cigarette, grinds the thing under her heel, turns, and then she glides, she just glides back inside, through the pottery studio, past my unopened card and out the other side, down the corridor, up the steps, into the wings and out onto the stage. Kate hits her mark with such precision and polished skill it’s obvious to everyone that she’s head and shoulders above the rest of us. I’m watching her now from the wings and there’s a serenity to the scene, a hush, the audience can’t bear to take their eyes off her. I’m surprised how calm I am now, my nerves have turned to nothing and I’m mouthing Kate’s lines along with her. I know every word that’s coming out of her mouth and my entrance is just seconds away. Someone pats me on the shoulder and wishes me ‘Good luck’, I take a deep breath and step out onto the stage and feel the heat from the lights hit my face.
That’s where my theatre diary ends, but that evening meant so much, it could have been yesterday.
The first thing that struck me was the audience. I couldn’t see them, and I couldn’t see Grampa Lines. Even though this was unexpected, I didn’t mind at all; it was much more personal, private and intimate, like when it was just Kate and I rehearsing. It was just the two of us, alone on the big stage. She held my gaze as I delivered my lines and she nodded encouragingly and touched my arm with her gloved hand when it was her turn to speak. I wasn’t expecting it, we didn’t rehearse it, but it was a lovely gesture because it made me feel like we were on the same side and in it together. The audience had picked up on that; they were laughing more, they were beginning to relax.
I could hear the audience moving about – oh no, were they leaving? They weren’t, they were just feeling comfortable enough to move around in their seats. I think I knew by then that we were on
to something good. The scene was over and we got a nice exit round – which is when they clapped when we left. Kate had told me that she loves getting them and hoped we’d get one that night. It felt so special.
Backstage, and between hissed ‘How do you think it’s going?’ and ‘Nice one, Linesy’, there was a very strong sense of us coming together to make something clever and real. Something that was a joy to be a part of. This was the first time, outside of my family, I’d ever felt so appreciated, or wanted, or even required. It was a feeling too strong ever to disappear and I loved it, I adored it because I felt that I belonged.
After the interval the audience enjoyed themselves even more, and we picked up on this straightaway and I asked Kate who was really in charge there, us or them? As a cast we were enthused even further by the audience reaction and this drove us and drove us and I raised my game by trying to use much more of the stage, trying to match Kate by making big, dramatic gestures which we didn’t rehearse. She didn’t seem to mind and I caught her smiling and I thought I’d actually impressed her. Never mind that – I’d impressed myself for once. God, how I wanted that night to never, never end.
When the final party scene came it really did feel like we were having a party! Our voices lifted even higher, and we sang with big, open mouths and huge white smiles and the final number where we were all on stage together was a true delight to be a part of. We were in a line and I looked up it, then down it. Everyone was amazing and we would be again the next night and even though I couldn’t wait to do it again – I could have done it again right there – I wanted to halt time right there, capture the magic of my first night and pour it into a little bottle so I could taste it again and again and again.
I saw Lizzie, Hazel Rimmer, Julia Jackson, Banger in black tights, Gary Street, Ann Robson, the lovely Claire Jackson from the orchestra and then I looked sideways and there was Kate, whose hand I was holding. I was also holding hands with Gary Street, but it didn’t mean anything. All of those friends, all of us having spent the best night together, it was almost too much for me and I quickly bit my bottom lip as I felt a tear spill over. I didn’t know how she knew, but she did, and Kate took a bow and lifted her left arm up high – and as I bowed, her red glove softly wiped away my salty tear.
I could see the tear stain on her long glove. I looked out into the audience as the lights came up and there was the ghost of Grampa Lines sitting next to my mother. He nodded his head and smiled and as the curtain came down, I stepped back.
After the show, Mum, Dad, Chris and Phil were waiting for me at the bottom of the spiral staircase. Loads of other parents were milling around, drinking teas and coffees from plastic cups. They gave a ripple of applause and then we all had a hug. ‘Well done, David. I’m very, very proud of you. You’ve got a lovely singing voice and that was a fine charleston, after all that worrying.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘That was brilliant, son. I enjoyed that. You were great, you all were.’
‘Dad, you hate musicals. How much of it did you sleep through?’
‘None, I’m sorry to say – the chairs weren’t comfy enough …’
Chris and Phil were giggling about something with each other. ‘What are you two laughing about?’
‘You were holding hands with that boy with the big bottom,’ spluttered Phil from behind his hands.
‘It was just for the play, Phil.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’
‘No, he is not my boyfriend.’
Then Gary Street waddled past, ruffled my hair and pinched my arse. ‘See you tomorrow, Linesy, you puff!’
Phil fell into Chris, almost toppling over at what Streety said. I turned down the offer of a lift home as I wanted to be on my own for a bit so I said that there was an after-show debrief and that I wouldn’t be too long.
It had gone eleven, and I was walking slowly through the soft rain that fell on the good roofs of Garforth. I’d been walking for half an hour with Claire Jackson, the clarinet player from the school orchestra who’d famously been going out with Jon Baker since they met on their first day at primary school. Claire was a beautiful girl, her skin like vanilla ice cream and her blonde hair that swung down her back was as blonde as Anthea Redfern’s, only natural. She had these lovely cheeks which plumped out, like she was hiding marshmallows in them. We didn’t really know each other very well at all, so it was nice just to walk together without actually saying anything very much. It was very comforting and calming, just being with someone else and walking, silently, in the rain.
Neither of us, it was clear, wanted to be at home right then. And neither of us asked the other one why, so we just walked, and walked. I didn’t mind the rain because the Brylcreem made it slide off my head and down the back of my neck. At least I’d still got cool hair in the middle of a rainstorm. Claire saw the rain that ran down the collar of my Harrington, linked arms with me and held her clarinet case over our heads as we walked on through the night. We hadn’t spoken for twenty minutes. She was warm and I could smell her perfume and she had sweet, plastic cup coffee breath. The rain became heavier. We stopped and I broke the silence. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Here.’
Claire pointed at the house in front of us, and then she leaned forwards and placed the most delicate and tender of kisses on my cheek. ‘Goodnight, David. And thanks for …’
‘Goodnight, Claire Jackson.’
The rain slowly ceased as I walked the half mile home. Mum and Dad’s bedroom light was still on and when I walked up the path and put my key in the door, it went out. Like a, well, light. I went to the kitchen and dried my hair with a tea towel then poured myself some milk into a German beer glass that Dad brought back from a business trip. I took one of his cigarettes from the packet on the side, opened the back door and sat on the step, drinking my milk and smoking. I blew smoke at the stars and wrote up the night in my diary. When I’d finished I went upstairs and got under the shower. Standing there under a torrent of hot water, running mascara, Brylcreem, shampoo, conditioner, it was a wonderfully cleansing feeling and I watched the night run down the plughole. I really did it that night. I got into bed, turned out the light, closed my eyes and before I knew it, I was fast, fast asleep.
It was the last night of the show and the week-long run of The Boy Friend came to a close all too soon. I was sad. Those last seven days had been the most sparkling, special time for me. When I woke each morning there had been stars in my eyes, hope in my heart and being alive, feeling alive, had never felt like that before. I felt like I was treading the past as well as the boards, and in spirit I could feel that Grampa was with me, too, acting out his old dream alongside me. It’d been fun being an actor. One of the hundreds of best bits about it had been when kids stopped me in the corridor and asked for my autograph. I loved that! I even thought about having signed pictures printed. I wasn’t letting it go to my head, though.
At breakfast earlier that week: ‘David, why are you wearing a monocle?’
‘I’m staying in character. It’s called method acting.’
‘But you’re eating Sugar Puffs. Does Percival eat Sugar Puffs?’
‘Of course he does, Mum. They’re all the rage sur la plage …’
I’d enjoyed the French Riviera look, it was very mod indeed. I wished it was something that Paul would get into, it’d suit him. I thought about dropping him a line, pointing him in the right direction.
It was the closing-night party. Brylcreem is impossible to shift unless you’re under a shower, so I was happy to wear it à la Percival Browne for the wrapping-up party. Kate was there, without her better half, and even though we could both see what was going to happen I still went through with it. It’s like we were acting out another scene together. Kate knew what I was going to say, I knew what she was going to say, but still, I just had to ask. ‘Hi, Kate.’
‘Hello, David. Sticking with the French look tonight, then?’
‘Moi? Yeah, I thought I’d keep it,
just for tonight.’
‘Good choice. It really suits you, shows off your cheekbones. Careful you don’t cut your fingers on them. You should wear your hair like that more often …’
Was this a come on? Surely not … ‘Um, thanks.’
‘Nice party so far. It’s been fun, hasn’t it?’
‘It has. In fact, it’s been the best week of my life and I just want to say thanks. Thanks, Kate, for everything.’
‘It’s my pleasure, darling.’
I knew that Kate was just being theatrical calling me darling. It suited her, and I mean it nicely, in a good way. I couldn’t help myself, though, I had to keep going, had to say something more when I really needed not to.
‘No, honestly. I want to say thanks for so many things, for teaching me how best to learn my lines, for teaching me to hit my mark, for helping me understand how my character thinks. Thanks for not being cross when I come in too early before you’ve finished your line and thanks, thanks so much for not screaming too loudly when I crushed your foot when we did the dance scene on Wednesday. Really, thanks. Thanks a million.’
Kate edged away from me, slowly at first, then slightly quicker. Was that panic in her eyes or just Silk Cut smoke? ‘Like I said, it was … fun.’
‘There is something else.’ That was not smoke – that was blind terror.
‘ …What?’
‘Well, I was just … wondering …’
‘What?’ She was clearly looking for the nearest exit.
‘I was just wondering if, you know, with this being a party and everything and your boyfriend not being here and me having played your boyfriend, well I just thought that maybe you’d like to, well, sort of fancy …’
